


Warm Like Snow

by dirao



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bisexual Harry Potter, Christmas, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, F/M, Facebook: Harmony & Co., Harry Potter Has PTSD, Hermione Granger is Bad at Feelings, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, There is snow and Christmas chocolates, harry potter pines, it's the most wonderful time of the year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:28:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27869194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirao/pseuds/dirao
Summary: Teddy has been misbehaving at Hogwarts during his final year, so Andromeda decides he should spend Christmas Break with Harry. Teddy is not quite on board with the arrangement, and he finds Harry an easy target for mischief when he notices Harry pining for the ever-oblivious Hermione.Snow and mistletoe and some of the worst matchmaking known to wizardkind? It may be a recipe for disaster. But if there's one thing that Harry is good at, is finding the right ingredients.Isn't it, after all, the most wonderful time of the year?
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Harry Potter, Teddy Lupin/Victoire Weasley
Comments: 105
Kudos: 156





	1. Prologue - December 1st, 2015

Andromeda can only pretend she hasn’t seen the circles under her eyes when she steps into the fire and comes out the other end at 12 Grimmauld Place, facing a small mirror. She is clutching, as always, the latest post from and about Teddy: a few postcards, a few letters and a few howlers.

Andromeda is exhausted.

She steps into Harry’s kitchen and kicks off the soot from her boots.

“Harry?” she calls out. He’s usually home at this time of day, but she doesn’t hear much. She used to knock or make more of a rattle, considering Harry’s youth and her absolute desire to never catch him in a compromising position. But the years had taught her that either Harry had taken a vow of celibacy or he never brings women home. She had no idea which it was, but she is willing to bet on fluctuation between both.

“Andromeda,” Harry greets her, walking in from the living room and giving her a tight hug. He glances down at the stack of letters in her hands and sighs. “What has your grandson done now?”

“ _Your_ Godson has been in detention for the better part of three months. No Hogsmeade visits. He’s flooded a hallway, exploded books and has now decided that he will become a full-blown delinquent and was caught snogging some girl in the Astronomy Tower after hours. I got this from McGonagall. There’s a lovely bit about getting plastered down by the lake and attempting to feed a first year to the Giant Squid.”

Andromeda hands Harry the Howler, which is now silent and singed. Harry raises an eyebrow.

Andromeda drops into a chair. “It ran out of steam,” she sighs.

“Tea?” Harry offers.

“Bless you.”

Harry puts on the kettle and gets out the mugs with one hand, while rifling through the howlers and the other letters and postcards. “Are we entirely certain he’s not a Weasley?”

“He’s worse. He’s a Tonks and a Lupin with a bit of Black and some very misguided Potter influence. And he’s seventeen now.”

“I remember seventeen,” Harry winces. “I was a bit of an arse.”

Andromeda rolls her eyes. “I remember the stories.” She looks down at her hands. “I think I’m getting too old for this. Or at least I think he thinks so. He doesn’t really tell me anything, he doesn’t trust me, and he’s going to get expelled.” She takes the mug Harry offers her and watches him sit across from her. At least she has someone to share the burden with. “It’s better when he’s home and I can tell if he’s upset.”

“Yes, the whole face turning purple is quite the giveaway,” Harry says with a smile. “You want him to spend his Christmas break here,” he states, understanding the meaning behind Andromeda’s words.

“I think he needs the kind of guidance I can’t give him,” she says, leaning her head back until it touches the wall. “I can hardly remember what it was like being that age.”

“I think I may have forgotten as well,” Harry admits. At thirty-four and childless, his teens are as far away from him as they’ve ever been, and what he does remember is hardly going to be good for Teddy. He had sulked a good amount, at seventeen, Harry recalls. He doubts that would be helpful, even if he had his reasons for being upset back then.

“I’m sure I have a few history books that could remind you,” Andromeda replies, unhelpful. “I… I think he needs godfatherly advice and guidance, and maybe to not hang around an old woman for three weeks straight.”

“So, an old man is fine,” Harry muses.

Andromeda laughs heartily. “Do not start calling yourself old, it will be the death of me. Also, you’re a bachelor. That always sounds young.”

“Cheers,” Harry says, holding up his mug in a gamely manner.

“You should write to him, make it sound like it’s your idea,” Andromeda suggests, draining her mug. “Merlin knows he’ll decide to stay at Hogwarts over Christmas if the suggestion comes from me, and then he will surely be expelled or skinned alive by Filch. Or both.”

“I’ll owl him tomorrow,” Harry says, thinking about how to word the letter in such a way that it would seem like his idea, and coming up empty. “I should probably bribe him with offers of Molly’s food and Fortescue’s Ice Cream.”

Andromeda gathers the letters and postcards and shakes her head. “He’s not six anymore. That is a rather important part of this problem.”

“Right,” Harry nods. Andromeda gives him a small look as she walks back in through the fire, and Harry is almost certain he can hear her laughing a bit to herself.

Three weeks with a teenage boy. What could possibly go wrong?


	2. December 2nd, 2015

“Should I count those out for you?” Hermione asks, looking over a draft of his letter with her quill dancing on her fingertips. “Because I can think of at least twenty things that could go wrong while Teddy stays with you.”

Hermione’s office is always a little colder than it should be, and Harry suspects she keeps the fire out to drive him out faster.

“Please don’t,” Harry says, trying to hide a smile at Hermione’s precision as she crosses out a word, and writes another in its stead.

“He will fight you and he will try to sneak out and…” Hermione starts, then looks up at Harry’s panicked expression and falls silent. “Do you need help?” she asks, her eyes fixed on his.

Harry blushes a bit. At some point in their adult life, Hermione had figured out that Harry would never ask her for help straight out, but he would accept help that was offered. His mistrust of people he didn’t know still plagued him, and he had made a small world for himself so that he wouldn’t have to struggle to avoid sycophants wherever he went. He didn’t like asking for help, because he knew that his every weakness was scrutinized and publicized.

But if Hermione offered, and he needed it, he would take it. “I guess,” Harry says, shrugging and looking away.

“I’ll take the afternoon off on Friday, I’ll drive you to meet the train and I’ll drive you home to get settled. Teddy loves me, he will be on his best behavior and then it will just be a matter of… both of you keeping out of trouble.”

“I keep out of trouble,” Harry says, sulking.

Hermione smirks. “Sure you do.” She hands him back his letter. “There. Now get out of my office.”

“No time for coffee?” Harry asks, hopeful. His stomach rumbles and he pushes the corrected letter into his pocket.

“Don’t you ever work?” Hermione teases.

Harry peers at her from over his glasses. “I keep flexible hours.”

“You keep Harry Potter hours,” Hermione adds, rolling her eyes. “If you weren’t the Savior of the Wizarding World…”

“I work plenty,” Harry says, a bit wounded.

Hermione stands and gives him a quick peck on the cheek and he can feel a flush burning him from the neck up. “I was just teasing. You work hard, but you do interrupt my work an awful lot. So now…” she pushes him out the door. “Go.”

And she closes the door behind him, leaving him standing in the middle of the Magical Law Enforcement office. He takes one last glance at Hermione’s closed door and walks out, among greetings and handshakes from the rest of the MLE staff.

Once he’s outside the Ministry doors he sighs and, ducking into an alcove, Disapparates.

/ / / / / / / / /

He appears a few steps away from the Leaky, solid ground beneath his feet, and he walks in through the pub with a quick wave to Tom, and onto the bustling pre-Christmas crowd of Diagon Alley.

The shop is located in what he’d been assured was prime real estate by Ron, and what George had called “so close to our shop that I can practically yell at you to make change”. Both statements proved to be true.

After the Battle, he’d decided to return to Hogwarts. It had been an opportunity to prove to himself that life could be normal again. And it had been a chance to prove to the world that he was… maybe not normal, but most certainly not going to accept any special treatment.

If it hadn’t been for Hermione, he wouldn’t have made it through potions, and then he wouldn’t have been able to do his apprenticeship and the shop wouldn’t exist. She had told him, then, “How can you be so useless at potions and still be a decent cook?”

And Harry had shrugged it off as a half-arsed compliment to his tent cooking, but it had made him start to rethink potions, and Slughorn was at least easier to deal with than Snape had been, and so something had clicked and he’d actually begun to like it. And Hermione’s comment had given him other ideas. He’d started sneaking into the kitchens and befriending the House Elves, and learning to make… things.

It was a seed that grew and it let him finally rid himself of the childhood illusion of becoming an Auror. He wasn’t cut out for the bureaucracy and he’d had his fill of dark wizards and dueling, enough fighting for a lifetime. Ron, on the other hand, had embraced the advantages of his Order of Merlin and thrown himself into Auror training, headfirst and roaring for a fight. He was good at it, too.

It was the job that finally broke Ron and Hermione up. She, apparently, was also quite done with wars and wounds, and she believed that public policy was best for fighting darkness, more so than a public force. In the end, Hermione had decided that Ron would leave their relationship, either immediately and unscathed, or later in a bodybag after Hermione had cursed him for making her afraid for his life every other day. They parted as amicably as they could and Harry just… watched them. Ron found a home in the uniform, and the “birds seemed to like it” he’d add. And Hermione would roll her eyes and go back to studying and, later on, to working.

It had taken Harry considerably longer to end things with Ginny. For one thing, he was quite unsure of how they had started back up. He’d just sort of let things happen after the war, for a while there. Ginny was pretty, and smart, and she liked him and told him so on numerous occasions, and showed him in numerous ways, often with Hermione rolling her eyes as accompaniment. And she kissed him first, which made it easier to kiss back, and from there things just seemed to take their natural course and he’d found himself in a relationship he didn’t really understand but didn’t know how to break off.

But then Ginny hadn’t really liked the idea of Harry not living up to the hero life he’d once so fervently desired. She had hated the idea of his apprenticeship in France and in the cacao fields of South America. And she loathed the shop, the tiny shop with the tiny counter and the tiny fancy chocolates.

She wanted Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World. She did not even particularly like Harry Potter, chocolatier.

He is quite proud of the shop now, and is especially proud of his Christmas offerings, which seemed at the time to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. He’d named a small, spicy, cinnamon-caramel bonbon after Ginny for Christmas, and Ginny had sighed and huffed and thanked him but told him in no uncertain terms that she did not want a life as sidekick to Harry the Shop Keeper. She had broken up with him over Christmas and by Easter she had taken up with Dean, who was Ron’s partner and a valiant Auror and a much better dancer.

Now Ginny is happy and loved the way she wants to be, and she sometimes even stops by for chocolates.

And he is alone.

He likes alone. He can live with alone.

It is infinitely better than being a disappointment.

He likes the shop when he’s alone as well. He enjoys being the first one in, and most days he opens hours before Grace arrives and busies himself with getting things in order and starting on the chocolate bases for the magical candy. Today, however, he owled to let her know he’d be late and the shop is already alive and bustling by the time he walks in.

The older ladies who work the restaurant down the street are already putting in their Christmas orders (for the grandkids, they say) and Grace is up to her ears in little bits of parchment, her spelled quill moving quickly while she manages to box up six Firewhiskey-filled chocolate hearts into the special Christmas box and hand it to an older man who harrumphs and brushes past Harry without recognizing him.

“Merlin and Morgana, I was about to lose my mind,” Grace says, and she tosses him an apron. “I need to get the baubles out of the cold storage.” She disappears into the back and Harry takes up his place behind the counter.

“Good morning, Mrs. Calendar,” he says, brightly, and smiles down at the wrinkled old woman.

“You are late,” Mrs. Calendar points out, poking him with her wand. “It’s almost Christmas.”

Harry points at the small display of Advent Calendars that are fifty-percent off today, the start of Christmas season. “I am aware. What can I help you with?”

As Mrs. Calendar begins a half-rant, half-Christmas order, Harry lets Grace’s quill pick up the words and stretches his hand to collect the woman’s coins. “It’ll be ready for pick up on the twentieth.”

He spends his day ringing up the passersby and taking down Christmas orders, and it’s well into the afternoon when he remembers to stop for lunch.

He switches with Grace and she takes the front of the shop and he goes into the back to finish up preparations for the usual stock. “We need to hire someone else,” Grace says, but Grace always says that at Christmas and they always make do. Today Grace seems more frazzled than usual. But finding Grace, someone who likes both chocolate and people and is tolerated by the motley crew that is the Diagon Alley clientele, was nothing short of a miracle. Lightning does not often strike twice. So he ignores her again and just revels in the silence of his kitchen and prep area.

He starts the preparation by melting down the highest quality chocolate he has in bain-marie and dividing it up for the six things he has in mind. Sometimes he does the same things over and over: Chocolate Ladybugs are a favorite, covered in a hard-shell of red-colored chocolate and charmed to scurry about on your hand. Sometimes he makes things up. Today, he’s been thinking of a chocolate for Teddy, something that shifts with mood, but he doesn’t have the materials at hand. He thinks he’ll do a Forest of Dean, which is Hermione’s favorite, a large slab of dark chocolate with different bits of nuts and dried berries, with dark and milk chocolate textured like a tree bark. It is charmed to multiply itself so it can be shared: that bit was Hermione’s idea.

He sighs softly, aware that he is on his own but that if anyone were to walk in, they would ask him why he sighs. He’s not entirely sure why he does it, but Christmas always makes him nostalgic, even for the little things from the past that he should not miss. They were hungry and cold in that tent, in that forest, and it was an experience neither would repeat. But somedays he misses it, the closeness, the sense of purpose. 

He shrugs off the confusion and pours the liquid chocolate onto a large flat tray. He sprinkles chunks of walnuts, almonds and pistachios, dried orange and sour cherries, and covers everything with more chocolate, and into the fridge it goes. Hermione had helped him spell the fridge into working in Diagon Alley, as she had most of his non-magical appliances. He’d discovered in France and in Brazil and in Ecuador that some things were not greatly improved by magic, and some just required patience and craft and no wand at all.

Hermione keeps popping into his head today, which is something he can usually avoid by thinking of Tropical Chocolate Frogs or Dancing Grasshopper Pralines. He turns his attention to his hands, to the whisk and the hot melted chocolate and decides he can put off thinking about Hermione just a little longer. After all, Christmas is just around the corner.

/ / / / / / / / /

Grace fills the room with calculating charms as she brings up the tally for the day, and organizes the slips of parchment into an order list. “You need to hire someone else,” she reminds him, and again he ignores her as he finishes copying down his corrected letter to Teddy. He reads Hermione’s final note: _Make it legible_. A bit late, but he supposes Teddy will understand what he’s saying.

“I have to get to the post office,” he tells Grace. “Get an owl.”

Grace places her hands on her hips and the result is fierce. She may be younger than he is by almost a decade, but she is very annoyed at him and very tired and, as he notices the stack of orders beside her elbow, probably very right.

“You either hire someone or I quit and I take all these tiny bits of parchment with me.” Harry stops his walk to the door and turns, listening for the first time in the day. “Or I… I am taking out an ad in the Daily Prophet and you will be flooded with weird people who want to stare at your scar instead of work. Or we could do this the normal way, with peace and love for all mankind, and you could…”

“I could find someone I trust to do the job?” Harry offers, his hands pushed into his trouser pockets.

“Exactly.” Grace’s eyes soften. “This year we have too many orders. We can’t manage alone and you know it.”

Harry sighs. “Give me two days. If I can’t find anyone, then you can take out an ad. In the Quibbler.”

Grace winds her hair up with her quill and puffs out. “Fine. Two days. Potter promise.”

Harry holds out a hand and places it on top of a pile of Chocolate Frogs. “Potter Promise.”

As he walks out, pulling his scarf around his neck tighter, he wonders what he’s gotten himself into.

/ / / / / / / / /

He gets to the post office minutes before they close, and it’s a good thing, too. Else Teddy will find himself greeted by him, no Andromeda, and no warning, in three-days-time. The lady at the post office assures him that the owl will arrive at Hogwarts with time to spare, and shows him a very young snowy owl who seems insulted to have his abilities questioned, and who takes off without a hoot.

He says a cordial goodbye and walks over to the nearest floo point, and goes home.

/ / / / / / / / /

12 Grimmauld Place still has some cold spots and some spots he swears are semi-haunted, although Luna has been by with the sage and the divining and has deemed the house fit for living every year on Halloween. Luna and Hermione helped redecorate, and Ron brought by some absurd gifts after Harry had returned from South America.

At least his bedroom isn’t drafty anymore, and he has managed to remodel the kitchen to his liking.

He does spag bog on Wednesdays because no one comes over on Wednesdays. On Saturdays he does beans on toast for the same reasons. On Thursdays he goes to the pub with Ron and Neville, on Fridays he makes curry for Hermione. On Tuesdays he gets pizza with Draco. On Sundays there’s Molly’s roast and on Mondays there’s Molly’s leftovers.

He twirls his fork after he’s done, arguing with himself over whether or not to call Hermione. She will probably have ideas, for hiring someone for the shop.

He supposes he could deal with it himself. But where would be the fun in that?

He drops the floo powder into the kitchen hearth and says, loudly, “Hermione’s.”

He pops his head into the fire and calls out to her. Nothing. Maybe she’s still at work.

He still hates flooing and he wishes he’d invested in the mobile Hermione keeps going on about. But there’s really no use, he’s a square when it comes to technology.

He tries again, calling her name tentatively. “Hermione?”

She pops her head out of her kitchen and peers into the living room, finally laying eyes on him in the fire. “Harry! Do you want to come through?”

“Is it… I mean, if you have company…”

She waves his concerns away. “I have wine and a very long dissent to read before court tomorrow, but you’re welcome to have a glass with me.”

He nods and steps through the fire.

He smiles at the warmth of Hermione’s flat. It is very much a place she has made for herself, rugs on the wooden floors and blankets on the sofas, candles and throw pillows and warm bluebell flames in small jars.

A small black cat, Marlowe, pads around the living room. He winds himself through Harry’s legs, purrs inquisitively, then moves back to his spot on the couch. Hermione walks back out of the kitchen with a glass of white wine for Harry, and he notices that she’s wearing leg warmers atop socks and joggers, and a huge jumper that seems likely to swallow her whole. He casts a silent warming charm towards her and she smiles gratefully.

“It’s been getting rather cold at night these past two weeks.”

Harry nods. He takes a sip from the wine and moves to sit in what he calls his chair, although it is resolutely not his. Nothing in this room is his. No one.

He pushes the uncomfortable thoughts to the back of his mind and gives Hermione a half-smile.

“I need help,” he sighs out, which is hard to say, but easier every time he says it.

Hermione resists the urge to spit out her wine. Marlowe meows at Harry, unimpressed. “Are you Harry or some weird Polyjuice Harry?” she asks.

“Just me,” he says. He taps his glass with his fingers. “Grace just threatened to quit if I don’t get some help for the shop.”

“As well she should,” Hermione scolds. “I’ve been telling you for years that you should hire someone over Christmas. It gets far too busy for just the two of you to handle.” Her curls bounce as she energetically points at Harry.

“But I really like it with just us two…”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “And before that, you liked it when it was just you, but then Grace came along and it all worked out.”

“So you’re saying I should clone Grace?”

“I’m saying…” Hermione’s hand moves as if she’s picking ideas out of thin air. “You are very stubborn.”

“I like ‘determined’,” Harry offers.

“You are impossible to deal with, you keep weird hours, and no one else can replicate your chocolate-making process, so, in essence, no one can actually help you do your work,” Hermione rattles out, and Harry purses his lips.

“I’m not impossible to deal with,” he says, only a little hurt.

Hermione frowns. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re… innocent,” she manages.

“But I am.”

“Put the Potter charm back in the box, it’s not going to work on me,” Hermione concludes. “I wouldn’t be a very good friend if I didn’t tell you the truth.”

Harry mock pouts, and lets his glass rest on his knee. “Do you think my Potter charm will work to get someone to work in the shop?”

“The problem isn’t getting someone for the shop, it’s getting someone who isn’t some insane fan. Or, you know, someone who’ll sell the story or your recipes to the Prophet.” Hermione drains her glass and closes her eyes for a second.

Harry knows better than to interrupt. There’s an idea forming behind her eyelids. When she gets like this, her mouth hangs slightly open and Harry is doomed. He wants to look away, and also stare forever. He succeeds in neither, and barely misses knocking his glass over.

“You should make Teddy do it,” she finally says.

Harry hands Hermione his glass to finish off, because he must be hearing things. “Wha-Why?”

“He knows the place, knows Grace, knows you. He’s smart and people like him. And it will give him something to do over the holidays.”

“I don’t see that working out too well. He’s on holiday, he isn’t going to want to work.”

“It’s not about what he wants. It’s about what he needs,” Hermione says, wisely, drinking the last bit of Harry’s wine. “He needs structure and discipline, and he needs to see you as an authority for three weeks. This way, he also has an incentive to behave somewhat. You know, knuts, sickles and galleons.”

Harry eyes her with mistrust. “This sounds like it’s going to come back and bite me in the arse.”

Hermione shrugs. “It might. Or it may just be brilliant.”

Marlowe jumps up on Harry’s lap and kneads his thigh slowly before settling down. Harry scratches the black cat behind his ear. “You’re always brilliant,” he blurts out, and he feels a flush creeping up behind his ears.

Hermione laughs heartily. “Well, at least someone thinks so. The Goblins are not so easily persuaded.” She glances towards her table, filled with paperwork. “As much as I’d like to sit and watch the telly with you, I still have twenty pages to get through.”

She rises to lead him to the fire and he stands as well. She considers it, then sort of slams into him with her arms around him. He loves her almost-violent hugs and he very quietly inhales the scent of her hair.

“I… uh… Sorry I didn’t owl first… I just drop by, you might have had company,” he says awkwardly, trying to keep her hair out of his mouth.

“That’ll be the day,” she says softly against his jumper. “You’re welcome to come anytime, and if I didn’t want you here, I’d just… block the fireplace or something. Which I won’t. You know I won’t."

Harry nods. “So… I’ll see you Friday.”

“Yes. I’ll pick you up outside the Leaky. I’ll take the Orange Horror out.”

“Teddy will be delighted,” Harry groans.

Hermione lets go of the hug and pushes him back towards the fireplace.

When he steps back in his own house, he tries to hold on to the sensation of her arms around him. And then, for a few minutes later, he tries to pretend that he didn’t just do that, and that everything is just as it has always been.


	3. December 4th, 2015

Harry wakes with a touch of a hangover. 

The pub had been warm, the lager had been just a tad bitter, and Ron had gone into a story about wizard mobsters that ended in a one-night-stand with a woman who may or may not have been a spy, and Harry and Neville had kept drinking just to keep up with Ron and he’d gone to bed too late and he'd not had enough water. 

He isn’t getting any younger, and he can tell by the way that just a few pints now mean getting into work a little late and spending the day somewhat dazed. “Thirty-five,” he tells the screaming alarm clock, as if it cares how old he is or feels. 

He showers quickly and apparates right outside the shop, in a bid to save time. He knows he’ll need to work fast today, if he’s to get out in time to pick up Teddy.

There’s already a queue outside the shop when he unlocks it, and has to ask everyone for an extra five minutes just to get everything in order. Grace bursts in quickly and gives Harry a very violent glare.

“Teddy can start tomorrow,” Harry says, putting his arms up defensively.

“He’d better be on his best behavior or I’m likely to strangle him and chop him up into the chocolates.”

Harry sighs. “Have you been watching Sweeney Todd again?” he asks.

Grace grins. “It makes for colorful threats.”

Harry ties on his apron, takes a deep breath, and opens the floodgates.

/ / / / / / / /

Teddy Lupin is angry.

He is not particularly certain what exactly he is angry about, but he knows that he is furious.

First there was the letter, an owl arriving with a barely-legible letter from Harry asking – no, telling him – that he was going to spend the Holidays in Grimmauld Place. Then a short note from his Grandmother.

It smells like a conspiracy. 

Sure, he’s been in trouble a couple of times this year, but it hasn’t been… It’s no big deal.

“Hey,” Random Ravenclaw Girl, Sixth Year, says from the compartment door. He can feel his hair changing color, from blue to a shade of purple he can’t avoid. Random Ravenclaw is pretty and he struggles to remember if he’s kissed her? Was she the girl in the Astronomy Tower?

“Hey,” he says, preferring to play it cool.

“Is it alright if I sit with you?” she asks.

Teddy wants to say yes, but he also knows that if this is Astronomy Tower girl, she’ll read something into it, and then there will be expectations, Christmas expectations he does not want to deal with. This could be a new Random Ravenclaw, but why chance it? 

He should learn their names, he thinks, not for the first time this year. “Uhm… not really… They’re taken?” he attempts.

Random Ravenclaw Girl seems disappointed. “Oh, that’s alright. Have a good holiday, Teddy,” she says.

“Thanks, you too,” he says, noncommittal. She walks away.

He takes off his smile and goes back to scowling at his letter. It’s not that he doesn’t like staying with his… with Harry. It’s just that he doesn’t like being shuffled around and treated like a child. 

He’s seventeen, almost an adult. And if he passes all his N.E.W.T.s, which is not that unlikely, he might even be able to work as an Auror, like his Uncle Ron. But here they are, Andromeda and Harry, just making decisions about his life and his holidays and not even asking him.

The sky grows darker outside the window as the train moves forward at breakneck speed and the rolling fields become small towns with blinking Christmas lights.

It is going to be quite a long December.

  
/ / / / / / / / / 

Hermione’s driving is erratic at best and insane at its worst. Harry is sure that if Hermione could, she would wave a wand and make all the other cars disappear. She’s powerful enough, so it must be propriety and the Statute of Secrecy keeping her in check. As it stands, she honks her horn as if she expects the cars in front of her to vaporize or disapparate. Harry sinks in his seat but doesn’t complain. He’s crap at all methods of transportation, be it Muggle or Wizarding. His apparating is innacurate, he hates the Floo, he always loses Portkeys and he can barely drive. 

He can fly, at least. He loves brooms and wishes they could be used more freely. 

But it’s unlikely, so he mostly just rides his bike and apparates to somewhere near where he intends to be, or floos and sneezes. 

He had thought at some point of taking Sirius’s motorbike out of the garage and using it, but he didn’t really like the noise.

“I’ve become boring,” he says, and he doesn’t realize he says it out loud until Hermione snorts.

“Well, you did overdose on excitement when we were in school,” Hermione points out. “Maybe you had your fill?”

Harry raises an eyebrow, but Hermione doesn’t see him because she’s busy calling the driver in front of her a very nasty name. “Oh, so you agree that I’m boring.”

Hermione pulls into the parking garage closest to Kings Cross. “The cost of parking is appalling,” she mutters. “And you are not boring. You are the most interesting person I know. You just lead a… quiet life now.” 

“The most interesting person you know? Hermione, you met the actual Queen a month ago,” Harry counters. “You’re joking.”

“To be honest, the corgis were lovely, but she wasn’t all that interesting. And don’t get me started on the PM.”

Harry laughs and tries not to say anything as Hermione parks badly and almost crashes into the next car. For all the things Hermione does brilliantly, there are some things she is just terrible at. Driving, and cooking, for example. “Well, I’m glad I rate right along those corgis.”

Hermione rolls her eyes and turns the engine off. “Yes. It’s you and corgis. Close tie.”

They step out of the car, a very old, very orange sedan that she inherited from her parents. Unlike Harry, Hermione is very good at Apparating and seldom uses her car, and the Orange Horror, the Motorized Monstruosity, has survived and thrived under her magical care.

They walk along the garage and out to the street. It’s biting cold and Hermione’s not nearly bundled up enough. Harry takes his scarf off and wraps it around Hermione’s neck as she uses quite a colorful array of expletives to describe the parking-pricing structure. She gives him a slight smile and Harry’s stomach bottoms out. “You always forget,” he says, looking away.

“I have things on my mind,” she says, taking her hands out of her pockets and moving the scarf around a bit until it looks like it belongs to her.

They make their way inside Kings Cross and through the wall, Harry’s hand on Hermione’s back. 

The train is only a few minutes away, the new, electronic-looking screens announce. Hermione beams up at the new additions. Every time she sees Muggle-looking progress in the wizarding world, she treats it like a personal triumph. 

The train still looks the same as it did when they were children… Well, maybe it doesn’t seem as big. The trail of steam leaves a scent that hits Harry with the weight of age. He feels like a kid again, and, at the same time, a bit old.

When he was a kid, he’d thought that by now he’d have a couple of kids at Hogwarts, that he’d make this trip with them. But things never quite turn out the way he expects them to, and Teddy is, by all accounts, almost a son. He is by rights Andromeda’s kid, yes, but also his responsibility and by extension, his family.

He shudders and Hermione rests a hand on his shoulder. “It will be fine.”

“Wasn’t it three days ago you started to enumerate all that could go wrong?” Harry asks her, giving her a warm smile.

“Prove me wrong,” she says, her eyes all challenge and Harry feels his heart flip. 

He tries to laugh away the odd feeling. “I just might,” he says, challenging back.

“See? Not so boring, are you?” She hooks her arm around his and for a second Harry thinks she might be flirting with him. He could be very wrong, of course, as is often the case with these things, so he lets it go and looks to the train. 

Everyone and their owls are off the train before Teddy makes his exit, his hair a bright shade of turquoise that stands shocking against the dark exterior of the train. His trunk follows him floating softly a few inches off the ground, knocking lightly on the top step. Harry grins at him but does not receive a smile back.

“Hey,” Teddy says, his eyes on the floor. 

“Teddy!” Hermione exclaims, clearly missing his sullen look. She hugs him even though it seems like she won’t be hugged back. Harry clears his throat and Teddy perfunctorily wraps his arms around Hermione, who is in turn squeezing the life out of him. 

“Hermione, you are going to break his bones,” Harry says, trying to inject some levity into the situation. He pats Teddy’s shoulder awkwardly. “It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah,” he says. He hauls his trunk onto a trolley and starts pushing it towards the exit. 

Harry squares his shoulders and follows. He will not let himself be beat by a teenager. He has a standard to uphold. He has to prove Hermione wrong. 

/ / / / / / / / /

The car ride is quiet, and uneventful even by Hermione’s standards. She’s keeping the honking to a minimum, and it’s unusual to say the least. 

“So how is it?” Hermione asks Teddy, half looking over to the back seat. “Being a seventh-year?”

“Fine,” Teddy shrugs. “I guess.”

Hermione presses on, gamely. “Ready for your NEWTs?” She grips the steering wheel nervously. “I was so worried I wouldn’t pass mine.”

“Which made no sense, because she knew everything on the tests and more,” Harry adds, trying. He is completely aware of how awkward and… old he sounds. “What are your subjects?”

“Astronomy. Care of Magical Creatures. Herbology. Potions,” Teddy rattles off. Then, out of nowhere: “So are you two shagging already?”

Hermione slams down on the breaks, hard. Her hand goes up into an invisible shield charm, allowing all the other cars to go around them. “What did you just say?” she asks, her face red. 

Harry has no words.

“I asked if you two are shagging already, Aunt Hermione,” he repeats, and there’s a half-smirk on her face. 

Hermione’s knuckles turn white against the steering wheel. She takes one look at Harry and takes a long shaky breath. He understands.

Harry nods. “You’ll drop the trunk by later?” he asks.

Hermione nods. 

And Harry presses a hand against Teddy’s arm, and Disapparates them both.

/ / / / / / / / 

They land on the ground about a ten-minute walk away from 12 Grimmauld Place, flat on their arses. Apparating from a sitting position always results in a bit of a fall. Harry uses the momentum to pick himself up from the sidewalk and push his glasses back up his nose. He offers Teddy his hand, but Teddy pushes himself up off the ground, ignoring the offering. 

“Why’d you do that for?” Teddy asks.

Harry takes two steps towards the house, then stops. He turns back to face Teddy. “You are seventeen. You may be an adult to the Wizarding World but you just proved you are a petulant child. You behaved… I have no words to describe what you just did. You hurt Hermione. You disrespected me, which is… I don’t care, it’s fine, you can be a rebel teenager all you want with me. But you know she didn’t deserve to be treated like that. So you will do some silent sulking while you work at the shop, whether you like it or not, and you will apologize to her. And I don’t want to hear another word about that.” He cracks his neck to one side. “Let’s go.”

“You could have just left well enough alone and let me go to Grandma’s.”

Harry sighs. “I thought it would be fun, you know, having you over for Christmas. But hey, you’re an adult, you can do as you like and hurt who you like.”

Harry starts back in the direction of Grimmauld place. He whispers to himself along the way. “Please come along. Please come along.” But he keeps walking and doesn’t look back. Just down the street from the house, he hears the approaching footsteps. 

“I’m sorry, okay?” Teddy says, a plaintive complaint more than an apology. “I just… I don’t… I’m sorry.” He looks down at the floor and kicks a pebble around.

Harry turns around. His shoulders fall at the sight of Teddy’s very worried face. The kid knows he’s fucked up and hurt someone, and Harry knows exactly how that feels. “I know,” he replies. “Let’s go inside.”

Harry unlocks the door without his wand, his hand resting over the doorknob. He lets Teddy in. 

They walk into the kitchen, just in time to see the fireplace glow purple and a trunk being pushed through the floo with a swift kick. 

Harry sighs. “Like I said, you’re going to have to apologize,” Harry says, as the fire dims out. 

Teddy rubs the back of his neck, his hair turning a dull, normal brown. He nods, slowly. 

Harry turns on the tap to wash his hands and start on dinner, as Teddy drags his trunk up the stairs to his room.

/ / / / / / / / / / 

Harry waits until Teddy is asleep before taking a leap of faith and apparating to Hermione’s front door. Or, well, about two streets away. He knocks softly at first, then a bit more insistently. He doesn’t normally show up unannounced but this is the second time this week and it feels almost adventurous. It’s cold, too cold, and he finds in his hurry he has forgotten his coat. 

Hermione opens the door in her pyjamas, her socks are overly large and bunch up at the toes. Why Harry always notices Hermione’s socks is still a mystery he has to solve. “Hey,” he says.

“You daft bugger, you’re not wearing a coat!” she tells him, pulling him in by the sleeve of his very thin jumper. 

“I had other things on my mind,” he says, smirking at her. 

Hermione looks skyward, then shrugs. “I’m not cross,” she says, but thinks better of it. “Not much, not anymore.” She looks down at Harry’s feet and he takes off his shoes as he usually does.

Harry nods. “He is sorry. He’ll apologize when we see you next, I’m sure.”

“I was very close to hexing him. Ginny’s infamous Bat-Bogey Hex was on the back of my tongue.”

“I saw the fury. I know the fury,” Harry points out. He shakes off the cold and sits on his chair, and Marlowe jumps into his lap. Hermione sits across from him on the larger sofa, her knees drawn up to her chest. “I’m actually surprised you never hexed me at Hogwarts. I was insufferable fifth and sixth year.”

Hermione flushes red, looking at the fire. “I didn’t hex you but I did sort of poison you… a bit?”

Harry’s eyes grow wide. “The Pumpkin Pasties that made me vomit purple?”

She shrugs and gives him a rueful smile. “You did deserve it.”

“I haven’t eaten pumpkin pasties in over fifteen years,” Harry gasps. “Was I that much of a prat?”

“Quite,” Hermione says. “You did apologize, though.”

“Between colorful bouts of vomit, if I’m not mistaken,” he mutters. His eyes narrow. “You took care of me, I remember now. You held my head over the toilet and I kept apologizing. No wonder you looked so… guilty… the next day.”

She raises her arms in acquiescence. “As charged.” She laughs a bit. “Maybe this year you can try some of Molly’s pumpkin pasties. They really are very good.”

“And risk being poisoned again if I upset you? I am not that daft.” Harry’s shock is only half-serious. He’d always suspected. “Maybe we can give Teddy some.”

“Maybe.”

There is a curtain of silence that falls over the room, and Harry can hear the sound of the fire crackling in his ears. Hermione opens her mouth to say something, but Harry beats her to it. “Shall I put the kettle on?” he asks. She nods. 

He moves Marlowe to the side and goes into the kitchen. Hermione follows, because there is no awkward conversation that Hermione Granger will not chase.

“Was I babying him?” she asks. “Maybe I pushed too much.”

“He’s a surly teenager. He needs no excuse to be an arse,” Harry says, filling the kettle and plugging it in. He likes Hermione’s house, all plugs and warmth and an Iphone hooked up to speakers piping soft music. 

“Why would he say that about us?” She taps her fingers on the counter and Harry closes his eyes for a second, willing the water to boil faster. He grabs two mugs and teabags. 

“I don’t know,” he says softly, and it’s a lie, a terrible lie. He knows exactly why Teddy said it. He didn’t say it to hurt Hermione. He said it to hurt him. Because Teddy has grown up around Harry and has seen him look at Hermione for sixteen years and maybe Teddy knows, maybe he knows exactly how Harry feels and how he’d like to just disappear down into the tile floor. “Just to get a rise out of us, I suppose.”

“Yes, of course. I…” Hermione trails off, takes a breath and gathers courage. “I don’t want you to think I was offended because of what he implied. I was mad because of what was behind it, by how he said it, not by… You know.”

“I know. I didn’t take offense,” he says, and he can feel his cheeks burning. He doesn’t really know what she’s trying to say and he would die before he asked. “Sometimes I think he’s too much like I was. And he just flies off the handle and says things just to make others angry and push them away, so he won’t have to deal with them.”

“That sounds like you… well, when you were sixteen. You’re not that anymore,” Hermione corrects. She brushes past him and takes the whistling kettle, pouring water into the mugs. He enjoys the proximity of her warmth, the scent of the tea as it steeps. 

“Yes, I do hope I’ve become less of a surly prat.”

Hermione laughs. “Much less. At least thirty-percent less.”

He hands her a mug and wraps his hands around his very hot cup, trying to ground himself. “You wound me.”

“So, parenting a teenager for a month… still seems like a good idea?” Hermione asks. She sips her tea and wrinkles her nose. “No sugar.”

“Sorry, forgot,” he says. She reaches for the sugar cubes at the same time he does, and their fingers brush, warm from their cups. They both jump back a bit. Maybe this was Teddy’s goal: to make these interactions awkward forever. He wants to disappear. He lets her take the sugar. 

“So?” she insists.

“It’s going to be a nightmare.”

“I hate to say I told you so,” Hermione says into her cup.

Harry lets out a bark of laughter. “You love to say I told you so.”

“I do,” she says, her smile wide and calm. “You owe me dinner.”

He sighs. He owes her dinner, and his life, and so much more. But he’s a lousy excuse for a Gryffindor and he just keeps holding on to his tea like it’s a life preserver. He’s drowning in a sea of longing for the woman he cannot have, and it’s terrifying. He squares up. It’s alright, he thinks. He can do dinner.

“Tomorrow?” he asks. “I’ll make rogan josh.”

She nods softly and sips her tea.

They finish their cups in silence and he tries not to look back when he leaves.


	4. December 5th, 2015

A series of loud bangs take Harry out of his warm dreams of curly hair and overlarge jumpers and into a confusing reality that he can’t quite grasp. By instinct he draws his wand and runs out of his room in the direction of Teddy’s room.

He half-expects to find Death Eaters, even after all these years. What he finds is better, but not by much, he thinks: It’s Teddy banging on a drum kit.

“What the f-,” he starts, but can’t even hear himself over the noise. He takes a deep breath, tucks the wand into the waist of his pyjamas and rubs the sleep from his eyes.

Teddy does not seem to notice. He also does not appear to have very much talent for the drums, but that is besides the point. Harry waves a hand in the air in a wandless Tempus charm, and it is, beyond a doubt, much too early for this shite. Six-forty-three in the morning.

“Teddy?” he calls out, but Teddy is wearing either headphones or earplugs, and Harry feels a bit old for being unable to tell which one it is. He finally resorts to waving his hands around until Teddy looks up. Teddy takes out one ear-thing from one ear and Harry can only say, “The neighbors will skin me alive, please don’t do that so early.”

“Is it early?” Teddy asks, and Harry for a second feels that maybe his conversation with Teddy last night, about not being an arse and apologizing has been forgotten. But Teddy shrugs. “Sorry, couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s still dark out,” Harry points out. He sighs. “Just… don’t start before nine. Or at least, cast a Silencio.”

“I thought I had to work today,” Teddy says, trying to hide the sulk in his words. “Won’t be here after nine.”

“You can do the drum thing after work, then. But before eight o’clock in the evening. The Johnsons have a baby,” he pleads. “Or, again, do a Silencing Charm. You are of age, after all.”

Teddy nods. “What time do we leave?” he asks.

“Eight-thirty,” Harry replies. He turns to leave, but feels something odd down his leg. His wand has slipped down his trousers and to the floor. He picks it up and feels silly now. “Be ready for the Christmas cheer.”

Teddy’s eyes grow large, literally, and Harry has to admit it’s a neat trick. “Sure. Christmas cheer. Can’t wait,” Teddy says. He casts a Silencing Charm on the room and keeps on drumming.

/ / / / / /

There is indeed a Christmas something, Teddy thinks, even though Cheer is not how he’d define it.

Diagon Alley is awash in shoppers and people walking around aimlessly. He regrets not transforming his face before leaving the house, even though he knows Harry would have protested. Being a Metamorphmagus is more annoying than useful, so far as he can tell. He’s of age now and could do it if he wanted to, whether Harry likes it or not, but he doesn’t use it often, aside from his sometimes-involuntary hair-color changes. There’s no one quite like him at Hogwarts and his attempts to use it for mischief have been quickly found out by Headmistress McGonagall and have earned him detention upon detention.

But now he’s walking Diagon Alley a spit away from Christmas, and he just knows someone is going to see him working in a Chocolate Shop and it will be a nightmare to live down. And he could avoid it by just focusing really hard and becoming someone else.

He walks fast, faster than Harry, and reaches the shop door before him, and then he has to awkwardly wait around for Harry to open the door.

“Well, you seem keen on getting started,” Harry says, as he tosses him an apron. “You’ll help Grace out front today.”

“Must I?” Teddy asks, aggrieved. “I could help out in the back,” he suggests.

“I’m already a good way along on this week’s orders and today’s stock, and Grace is getting swamped, taking orders and selling to passersbys.” Harry pulls on his own apron and ties it back. He mills into the kitchens and Teddy follows him.

“Why do I have to do this again?” he asks.

“I need the help,” Harry admits, opening the taps to wash his hands. Harry focuses on his hands, his fingers, the tiny cuts and burns. Anywhere except Teddy, and Teddy knows why.

Harry Potter does not ask for help. There is a family story about Harry doing a very bad job of changing Teddy’s nappies for a whole week before Hermione had arrived and sorted things out. It had not occurred to Harry to ask for help, or instructions from Andromeda, and he’d dove head first into putting nappies on backwards, much to the dismay of Hermione who’d found the results appalling, and to the endless mirth of Andromeda, who’d laughed heartily every time she told it.

Harry was asking him for help. And, as angry or confused as Teddy might feel right now, he recognized how hard that must be for him.

Also, he was getting paid. He rolled his eyes. “Fine. But if anyone from school shows up, I will morph into Uncle Ron, so help me Merlin.”

“Fine,” Harry huffs, turning off the water. “But I only pay you for the time you work as yourself. If you work as Ron, Ron’s getting paid.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Teddy moves out to the front of the store just in time for Grace to pinch his cheek and call him something that is probably embarrassing in Romanian. Teddy tries to ignore her, but she starts bossing him around immediately and in a little under thirty minutes she has given him enough work for the entire day and then some. As customers start moving into the store, Teddy understands why Harry needs the help: They are swamped, with short intervals of busy.

There’s a sort-of lull at around three o’clock, during which Grace pops out for a few minutes, then pops back in with bacon sandwiches and a smile. They take turns for lunch. At one point, Teddy looks back to the kitchens and he catches Harry fully focused on a slab of dark chocolate with pink ribboning. He doesn’t look up, his wand moving over it until Teddy can smell the scent of raspberry wafting through the air and the chocolate reshaping itself in the most unusual manner.

Growing up, it had taken him a good amount of effort to reconcile the man before him with the teenage hero that was described in his books. Harry, his mild-mannered godfather with a long stride and the permanent smell of sugar on his hands, he had known all his life. The other man, Harry Potter, was a hot-headed teenager who’d saved their world and won the battle where his parents had lost their lives. Andromeda said they were one and the same, but aside from the fading scar, they seemed so different.

Harry brought out trays of new chocolates to re-stock the display, and handed them to Teddy. Teddy could see the old scars on Harry’s hands, and he wondered about leaving all the excitement and adventure behind to be just a normal man. It was unfathomable.

He saw glimpses of the hot head now and again, in a rash decision or a split-second reaction, in his running into his room with his wand out, battle ready, at the sound of the drumming. In his vehement defense of Hermione. As Harry disappears into the back again, Teddy thinks about what he’d said to Hermione yesterday, and he feels a flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck.

“Your hair,” Grace points out. At least she’s up front about it. Some people just stare at him as his hair changes, and keep on staring. He shrugs it off.

He is sorry. Not of what he said, maybe, but about how he said it.

He knows that Harry loves Hermione. He knows. Maybe he was just angry and wanted Harry to feel it. But he hates that Hermione was hurt or offended, and that maybe he has made everything a bit worse.

He returns to placing the chocolates on the different colorful trays, and stops a red chocolate ladybug from crawling away with a softly whispered freezing charm.

The lull ends and customers start milling in rapidly and do not stop until closing.

/ / / / / / /

Harry packs a few squares of Forest of Dean and a few other treats straight from the kitchens and into his small bag, before putting away the preparations for Monday and cleaning the kitchen a bit. It’s well past seven, but he did promise to cook, and Grace has agreed to close up on her own.

When he walks out there is a bit of a crowd, so he helps Grace and Teddy for a bit until it slows again.

Teddy and Grace look at each other, then to Harry, with twin expressions of exhaustion. “We need help,” they say in unison, and Harry deflates.

“But you just started today,” Harry says defensively.

“Yes, and advent just started, and school just let out, and…” Teddy starts.

“And the orders just doubled. We’re never going to be able to fill them, and we’ll need to close and just do… deliveries of past orders,” Grace finishes.

“We are not closing,” Harry declares. “Well, we are tomorrow, because it’s our last Sunday off until Christmas, but we are not closing shop.”

“Then we need more help,” Grace counters, crossing her arms and looking at Harry pointedly.

Teddy takes his apron off and nods vigorously. “I agree.”

Harry looks at them both, then at the ceiling. “Fine. I’ll figure something out. Just give me a couple of days.”

Grace grins widely. “Excellent. Have a nice dinner,” she says, pushing them both out the door and onto the windy street.

/ / / / / / / / / /

There is magical silence coming from upstairs while Harry chops and simmers, slices and browns, and he imagines that Teddy is drumming away. Harry feels restless and nervous, and the cooking helps a little. He wants Teddy and Hermione to be back in each other’s graces. He’s always hated being in the middle of conflicts between friends, he remembers being in the middle of Hermione and Ron fighting during school, and then later, when they’d just broken up and both demanded his time and attention at the same time, trying to colonize his friendship. It had taken him a long time to get them to be civil and then friendly again.

The years have passed and the resentments have dissipated and now Hermione and Ron are good friends again, and so are Harry and Ginny, but there were a few years when Christmas at the Burrow was awkward. He doesn’t want to have that happen between Hermione and Teddy.

Hermione arrives quietly through the floo, dragging in an unexpected warmth into the kitchen with her. Harry thinks back to the time after the war, when he’d warded 12 Grimmauld Place within an inch of insanity, afraid some Death Eater or mad fan would find his or her way into the house. Hermione had been the only one patient enough to drive down to visit him and slowly convince him to trust people again. That she could trust and walk and drive and live freely, even with all the scars that the war had given her, even after all the war had taken from her, it made him feel like he, too, could do it.

“Hey,” she says, and kisses his cheek softly as she makes her way around the kitchen. She drops her bag on a chair, her coat and scarf on another. “I brought naan, from the place.”

“Brilliant,” Harry replied, still feeling the closeness as she walked around. “The wine’s in the fridge.”

“You could have just left it out, it’s so cold in here,” she points out, but gets the wine and the glasses out. “Do you think Teddy’ll have some?”

Harry shrugs. “If McGonagall’s howlers are to be believed, he’s been getting pissed on pilfered Dragon Vodka in the Astronomy Tower, behind Hagrid’s cabin, and at the arse-end of the Lake. Little wine with dinner will probably be just fine.”

“He’s been busy, then.” Hermione gets a corkscrew from one of Harry’s drawers and pours out two glasses, leaving Teddy’s empty but on the table. She looks up towards the ceiling, where she hears the shuffling from upstairs and feels the magical Silence. “The drum kit?” she asks.

“Gave me a fright this morning. Made a fool of myself running into his room with my wand out, like a fucking Auror.” Harry sighs and stirs the pot. The food is almost ready. Hermione pops the bread into the oven to warm. The scent of onions and spices fills the air. “In my pyjamas.”

Hermione gives him a warm smile and takes a sip of her wine. “You must have been a sight.”

“That I was,” Harry admits. “It’s almost ready. Do you want to serve it up while I get Teddy? Or I could send up my Patronus. Or…”

“Or I could go upstairs and tell him dinner's ready and you could avoid the awkwardness altogether,” Hermione offers.

Harry smiles relieved. “I beg of you, in the name of all that is holy,” he attempts.

Hermione laughs. She seems to enjoy this adult, non-confrontational side to Harry. She takes a long sip from her wineglass and nods. “Alright then.”

/ / / / / / / / /

Teddy is midway through a drum solo when he senses a presence and stops his drumming. He takes the silencing charm off the room and hears the soft knock. He knows his hair is about to betray him, so he takes a deep breath. “Come in,” he calls out, his wand moving out to unlock the door.

Hermione pokes her head in and Teddy is both relieved and anxious.

“Hey,” she says, “Dinner’s ready.”

Teddy nods. “Uh… do you want to come in?” he asks.

Hermione nods. She pushes the door open and steps into a room that is both a child’s and a teenager’s, at the same time. Harry has never been known for having any instinct towards décor, and this room has most likely suffered for it. It has never been really updated to fit the Teddy that is now, nor has it lost the Teddy that once was. It is frozen in time, like the relationship between Teddy and Harry has.

There is no place to sit so Hermione stands, and awkwardly, so does Teddy.

“I wanted to apologize,” he launches straight in and Hermione doesn’t let him off easy, looking right at him. Harry always looks away at awkward moments, but Hermione launches straight at them, with no regard for the other person’s pride. “I was a bit of an arse.”

“That you were,” Hermione says, and there is no humor in her voice. “I’m not going to lecture you. You know better than anyone that it’s not okay to behave like that. And that it was hurtful to say that, not just to me, but to Harry also.”

“I know.” Teddy shuffles his feet, moving his weight from one to the other. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Then why do it?” she asks, crossing her arms. She leans against the doorframe.

He looks up at her and she is actually waiting for a true an answer. “Well, a bit was to get back at... Harry for not telling me Grandma didn’t want me around.” She can see straight through him. “Another part of me was genuinely curious.”

Hermione opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again. “You know that Harry and I… It isn’t like that.”

Teddy raises an eyebrow, but nods. As much as he can tell when Hermione wants to push a conversation forward, he’s known her long enough to also know when her eyes are telling him to drop the matter. And he knows that there’s more to it, more to the “it isn’t like that”. And so, he pushes.

“So what is it like?” he asks.

Hermione blushes slightly but gives him a stern look. “This is starting to look less like an apology and more like an interrogation, and I’ll have you know I am very good at my job and will turn the interrogation back on you. Say, about a certain incident in the Astronomy Tower.”

Teddy raises his arms up in a gesture of defeat. “I really didn’t mean to hurt you, Aunt Hermione,” he says, finally. “I won’t be that much of an arse again, I promise.”

Hermione sighs. She opens her arms and welcomes Teddy into a hug that he accepts grudgingly. “Good,” she says, and Teddy can feel his hair turning a good shade of blue again. She swings an arm around his shoulder and guides him out of the room. “But just in case, have I ever told you how I poisoned Harry when he was about your age for being an absolute pillock?”

/ / / / / / / / /

The curry is warm and filling, the wine is cool, and the mood is no longer awkward. Teddy recounts his dealings with a particularly demanding customer who wanted red and green chocolate ladybugs for Christmas and how he’d left the entire store in a less-than-festive mood. Harry had missed it, being in the back and all, and he enjoys the story but mostly enjoys watching Hermione as she eats, drinks, and laughs. She looks at him pointedly when the conversation turns to finding yet more help for the shop, and he realizes he is once again being weird around her.

“So business is good, then,” Hermione points out. “If you need as much help as Teddy and Grace say.”

“It’s fine,” Harry attempts, always a bit self-conscious when it comes to the business.

“It’s insane,” Teddy counters. “There’s old ladies fighting for chocolate, and the order slots for around Christmas are already filled, it’s mad.”

“There are no old ladies fighting for chocolate.” Harry is a bit worried by the insinuation that his shop has become a place of conflict.

Teddy sops up the last bit of curry with his naan and points at Harry with it. “You didn’t see Mrs. Robbins and Ms. Angier arguing over the last bit of Forest of Dean today. Dentures were bared, canes were brandished.”

Hermione laughs loudly, her entire body shaking with mirth. “You are a poet,” she tells Teddy, and he blushes all the way to his ears.

Harry wants nothing more than to reach across the table and pull Hermione into a hug and thank her for taking the sullen look from Teddy’s face, even if it’s just for one meal. “I got chocolate!” he announces instead. He’s come to find that sometimes words and hugs can be easily replaced by the right chocolate.

Two slabs of Forest of Dean, three GWs (formerly-known as Ginny Weasley’s but she did not enjoy the comparison to a sweet that makes you breathe cinnamon-fire), and a couple of chocolate-covered brandied cherries are placed on the table. Hermione immediately takes a slab of her favorite and whispers the enchantment until it is doubled. She breaks off half for Harry, as Teddy reaches for a GW and lets his nose transform into the shape of a Welsh Green’s nostrils. He exhales the fire through his metamorphosized nose, then lets it get back to its usual shape.

Hermione bites into her bar and smiles contented. “The only thing that would make this better is… Tea?” she asks.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Teddy says, solicitous.

Harry arches an eyebrow at Hermione. “Did you put him under some spell?”

Hermione shrugs. “I may have threatened bodily harm,” she offers, sheepish.

Harry takes a bite out of his chocolate. He usually doesn’t eat from his own creations, he tastes and tries bits here and there all day long. But he always shares a bit of chocolate bark with Hermione. It is named after a particularly lonely and strange part of their lives, and he likes the feeling of sharing this with her as well.

“You are a genius, have I ever told you that?” she says, smiling. “I mean, the pistachios and dried cherries are just… it’s brilliant.”

“Not a genius, no. You generally call me daft, really.” Harry sits down beside her.

“Oh, come off it,” Hermione says, swatting his shoulder playfully. “Are you both going to Molly’s tomorrow?”

“I’m not that daft, and of course we’re going,” Harry replies. “Molly will flay me if I don’t take Teddy over.”

“Bill and Fleur are home. Word is, Fleur is massive,” Hermione says, holding her hand over her belly in an exaggerated gesture of a pregnant belly. “Which probably just means she looks like a normal human being for once.”

“Whose word?” Harry asks, enjoying the bit of gossip.

“Ginny’s, of course. She called to tell me and to try and set me up with that bloke from the team.”

Harry swallows hard and tries to keep his cool. “What bloke from which team?”

“Jones from the Wimbledon Flies?”

“Johnson from the Wimbourne Wasps?” Harry corrects.

“Yes, that one,” Hermione snaps, glad to almost have gotten it right. “Close enough.” Hermione looks up at Harry’s worried stare. “I said no to the bloke, yes to Sunday lunch at The Burrow.”

Harry tries to appear non-chalant. “You do realize that the bloke will be there tomorrow? Ginny always does this.”

“Yeah, well, maybe there’ll be a date for you in it as well,” Hermione points out. “Ron and Ginny are always… conspiring.”

“Do you know something I should know?” Harry asks, suspicious.

Hermione takes one more playful bite from her chocolate. “Always.”

Teddy gets back to the table with the tea mugs and swipes the other GW before excusing himself to go up to his room.

Harry watches Hermione sip her tea. He wonders, now and often, probably more often than he should, about Hermione’s love life. If she has one that he is unaware of. If there is a reason why she doesn’t. He selfishly hopes sometimes that he is the reason, but knows that wishful thinking will get him nowhere. He has to just stop being weird.

After Ginny, there had been a string of girls introduced by Ron or Neville or George. There was a brief relationship with a muggle woman that did not work out because he was crap at lying and she was starting to notice everything weird and he didn’t trust her enough to tell her everything. And she got jealous of Hermione and of the fact that he still saw Ginny every Sunday lunch. So that was that.

He’d been introduced to a few nice guys as well, by a well-meaning Fleur, and there had been that historic blind date with Draco Malfoy which had, oddly enough, turned them into rather good friends, as they both took turns hexing a reporter who had tailed them. After that, they’d proceeded to get drunk and tell each other why they hated one another, and then discovered that they didn’t hate each other anymore, not really, but they most definitely did not want to shag, either.

He doesn’t date much anymore, the last attempts at matchmaking by Molly Weasley ending up in total disaster or barely-satisfying shags, and more often than not followed by half-false accounts of the date on the Daily Prophet. He’d rather just work and occasionally wank off. But Ginny and Ron have made it their mission to get both Harry and Hermione paired off and it makes things… difficult.

He wants something simple, something normal.

He wants what he imagines his mother and father had, once, for a few years.

Mostly, however, he wants Hermione, and that makes everything else that much harder.

Like, for example, having a normal dinner and watching his best friend drink tea without having what his C of E primary school called “Impure Thoughts”, well before Harry was old enough to understand what those were.

He understands now exactly what the vicar had meant, watching Hermione’s curls fall over her face and almost into her mug.

“Are you alright?” she asks him, and he mentally kicks himself for being weird and even thinking of Hermione in such a way with her sitting less than a foot away.

“Sorry, my mind went… elsewhere,” he says, taking a big gulp of tea and effectively burning his tongue.

“To your probable blind date for tomorrow?” she teases.

“I really hate a Weasley on a mission,” he mutters. “Do you think they’ll do it? So close to Christmas? It’s cruel, really.”

Hermione tries to hold in a laugh, but fails. “You look terrified.”

“I’m so bad at the dating thing,” he says, and he is, he is terrible at it. “It’s likely that the best date I’ve ever had was the one with Draco. The food was good and nobody went home disappointed.”

“You can’t be that bad,” Hermione says, tipping her mug at him. “You’re the savior of the Wizarding World.”

Harry rolls his eyes and Hermione snickers. She knows he hates being called that, because it wasn’t him, not only him. “The first date I ever went on ended with Cho bawling. It’s been downhill ever since.”

“Hey, at least you don’t keep getting set up with Quidditch players because you dated one in school.” Hermione looks at her half empty mug and her half empty wine glass, and switches to the wine. It is a wine conversation, after all. “Everyone around us seems to think we’re frozen at seventeen. And for the record, I don’t like Quidditch or Professional Quidditch Players or… sport-guys.”

“Sport-guys.”

“I’m tired and I’ve had too much wine and too much food,” she says, half-apologetic. “Sport-guys. I’m standing by that one.”

“I’m hurt. I was a sport-guy,” Harry commented.

“Now you’re a chocolate guy. It’s a vast improvement,” she declares. She raises her last bit of chocolate in a mock toast, and Harry clinks his chocolate to hers. She eats the last bite and lets her arms fall on the table and her head fall on top. She looks at him with eyes full of warmth and good humor.

“Cheers,” he says, and he can’t help his completely unfettered smile. He likes seeing Hermione like this, relaxed and silly.

At times like this, the rest of the world seems to melt away and all her responsibilities to the world go with it.

But it never lasts long. Hermione lets out a soft sigh and looks up at Harry from her perch on the table. “I should go,” she says. “Thank you for the food and… everything.”

“Thank you for talking with him,” Harry says, his eyes looking up in the general direction of Teddy’s room. “I don’t know how to talk to him, not really.”

Hermione wrinkles her nose. “I would think it would be easy. Like talking to yourself,” she whispers. She gets up and kisses Harry’s hair, her hand resting above his heart as she leans down. “You are two faces of the same coin.” Harry presses his hand against hers for a second, and he hopes she cannot feel how fast his heart beats when she does this, this simple goodbye ritual.

“I’m too tired to understand what you mean,” he lies.

­­

She smiles and steps into the fireplace, letting the lie linger as she disappears, taking the warmth of the kitchen with her.


	5. December 6th, 2015

Harry wakes from fitful sleep. There are no drums now.

His dreams had involved chocolate, and Hermione’s lips and the way her jumper sometimes slides over her shoulder and he wakes hard and unsatisfied and unwilling to do what his mind and body want him to do.

He takes a very cold shower.

Sunday lunch at the Burrow is a very serious business, and Harry knows that there will be cheek-pinching and prying eyes and very personal and uncomfortable questions, so they better get there early.

Teddy takes forever to shower and dress and comes out looking, in Harry’s opinion, exactly like he looked before cleaning up. Glancing in the mirror, he knows he can’t really complain. His hair still sticks out at odd angles, his clothes look more frayed than Teddy’s, and Harry lacks the excuse of being a surly teen.

“How are we getting there?” Teddy asks, checking his reflection and pushing blue hair out of his eyes.

“Apparate,” Harry states, firmly. “You want to practice doing it alone or should we side-along?”

“Side-along. If I splinch myself before Sunday roast Molly will kill you,” Teddy states, wise beyond his years.

Harry looks at Teddy once more before pulling on his coat. “Did you just… Did you morph taller?”

Teddy shrugs. “A bit. I don’t want Molly telling me that I’m not eating enough.”

“Yeah, well, now she’ll tell me I’m shorter than you because I didn’t eat enough,” Harry counters, annoyed. “I don’t know what’s better, her thinking I’m starving you or that I starved myself.”

“The former. She loves me,” Teddy quirks. Harry rolls his eyes and places a hand on Teddy’s shoulder, and they disappear into thin air.

/ / / / / / / / / /

Harry’s crap sense of direction drops them in the fields behind The Burrow, a five-minute walk to the edge of the Weasley lands. They walk through the cutting wind - past the recently-tossed garden gnomes - and they jump over the white wood fence. There’s a raucous game of kick-the-quaffle going on between Ginny, Bill, Ron, and Dean, and Harry misses being pinned on the head by the ball by mere inches. Teddy takes it all in a stride, and takes the ball as soon as Ron hands it to him and gets tagged into the game as Ron steps out of it to greet Harry.

“If it isn’t the great Harry Potter,” Ron says, bumping his shoulder.

“I didn’t bring any chocolate,” Harry points out.

Ron hides his disappointment with a shrug. “I have a surprise for you,” he says.

“Oh, no,” Harry gets out just as they enter the house and he’s faced with a woman. A very pretty, blonde woman, who seems very friendly.

“Oh, yes,” Ron counters. “Harry, may I introduce you to Mary Schelly?”

“Are you kidding me?” Harry whispers.

“No relation,” Mary says, smiling widely. She has a very pretty smile and Harry smiles back and shakes her proffered hand.

“It is very nice to meet you,” Harry says in a perfunctory manner. “If you’ll excuse me for just a few minutes while I flay my best friend.”

Harry pulls Ron around to the kitchen door. “What the fuck?” he asks, and Ron just shrugs again.

“Come on, mate, you haven’t dated in ages. Your prick is going to fall right off for lack of use.”

“My prick is just fine,” Harry hisses.

“Wanking does not count.”

“For Merlin’s sake! Ron, I will murder you. I will use an unforgivable and resign myself to a life sentence in Azkaban if you keep setting me up with… anyone. Ever.”

Ron gives him another shrug and Harry just wants to disapparate. But Molly has already spotted him and it’s too late.

“Harry, dear, how lovely, did you meet Mary already? Such a nice girl,” Molly says, giving him a hug and looking over his shoulder. “Where is that Godson of yours?”

“Teddy’s out in the garden playing kick-the-Quaffle,” Ron says, cheerful. “Harry was just thanking me for introducing him to Mary.”

“Yes, she seems quite lovely,” Molly agrees. “And the young man Ginny brought ‘round for Hermione is very charming.”

Harry swallows hard and glances around. “Hermione’s here?”

“Oh, yes, they’re both helping out in the kitchen,” Molly points out, waving her hand in the general direction of the kitchen.

Harry pops his head into the kitchen and his eyes meet Hermione’s. Her eyes widen and she turns away from her unwitting date and mouths ‘Help’. Harry purses his lips and shrugs, just as he is pulled back out to the living room by Ron, then pushed towards Mary.

“I’ll leave you two to get to know each other,” Ron says, but before Harry or Mary can open their mouths, Fleur pushes the front door open and, with her massive belly before her, walks two steps into the living room and drops onto the couch.

Harry can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. Fleur, the lifesaver. 

“I tell you zis, ‘Arry Potter, do not wait thirteen years between your second and third child,” she says, putting her feet up. “Bill Weasley, quell salaud!” she adds, though not loud enough for Bill or her girls to hear her from the garden.

Harry’s middling understanding of French does extend to swears and he tries to bottle up his laughter. “I’m pretty sure it takes two to tango.”

“Branleur,” she mutters at him, then tilts her head towards Mary. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“Uhm, this is Mary Shelley. We, uh, just met,” Harry says.

“Like Frankestein?” Fleur says, raising herself up on her elbows. “Never mind, not interested. Will you get me some water, ‘Arry? My feet look like Yorkshire pudding.”

Mary’s eyes widen in alarm. “I, uh… I’ll be out in the garden,” she says, quickly taking her own drink out of the room.

Fleur smiles widely. “And zat is why you love me,” she says, watching the woman disappear. “Ron again?”

“You are a goddess,” Harry praises. “I’ll get your water.”

“Did someone ask for water?” Hermione says, stepping out of the kitchen with a tall glass and handing it to Fleur. The very tall, very famous Quidditch player follows her out and is at a loss of what to do or say. It is not every day that you are faced with a very pregnant French woman and the Saviour of the Wizarding World in the living room of people you hardly know.

“Johnson, why don’t you wait outside while we help Fleur a bit?” Hermione suggests, and the man nods and does as he is told. Harry watches him go out and catches Mary looking back at Harry, then at Johnson, and making the right choice, approaching the player with a trained smile.

“Well, that solves that,” Hermione says, relieved. “Fleur, are you alright?”

“I’m perfectly fine, ‘ermione, except for ze alien growing inside me,” she says, feigning distress. “Have you seen my husband?”

Hermione stands on her toes and looks out the window. “He’s just been replaced by Ron in the kick-the-quaffle. He’s coming in now.”

Bill enters shortly, his long hair sticking to his neck, sweat everywhere. He leans down to kiss Fleur but she holds up a hand. “Do not, you sweaty _cochon_. Where are the girls?”

“Dominique is setting the table with my Mum, Victoire is… Well, right now, she’s pushing Teddy into the pond.”

“What?” Harry runs out to the doorway, just in time to see Teddy dripping, small gills showing at the sides of his neck. He takes a deep breath and glances back at Bill. “You are a brave man. I’ve had him three days and I’ve aged five years.”

“I wonder what he said,” Hermione says, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “And if he said it in French.”

“Zey ‘ave never gotten along,” Fleur says. “And Victoire has a temper. It is very well known in Beauxbatons.”

“Is she very upset?” Hermione asks. “About switching schools?”

Bill shrugs. “If she is, she hasn’t said. Dominique cried. But Victoire… she’s very stoic.”

“She’s very Delacour,” Fleur agrees.

Harry watches as Victoire, with great hand gestures, says something probably very rude in French to Teddy, who is left dripping in the middle of the lake. Teddy’s hair is drained of all color and takes a very blonde, almost white hue. Very much like Victoire’s.

Harry has an idea. It is probably a very bad idea, but it is now in his mind, and so it is on the tip of his tongue. “Bill?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think Victoire would be interested in working at the shop?”

Bill wrinkles his nose. “George’s joke shop? No way.”

“My chocolate shop.”

Fleur’s face lights up. “Oh, I think she would love it.”

“We need the extra help,” Harry says, glancing sideways at Teddy, who has taken out his wand and is drying his clothes. A little further away, Johnson and Mary Shelley have struck up a deep conversation and are obviously flirting.

“I’ll ask her,” Fleur offers. “Is Teddy working there as well?”

“Yes. But I can probably keep them apart, Victoire in the kitchens and Teddy up front.”

“No, there is no need,” Fleur says with a mischievous smile. “Victoire needs to learn to control her temper and she will be in Hogvarts in _Janvier_ , it is best if they become _bonnes amies_. I’ll talk with her.”

Bill shrugs. “It's your exploding chocolate shop,” he says. “Go right ahead.”

Hermione looks over Harry’s shoulder at Mary and Johnson attempting to sneak out of The Burrow, over the fence, followed closely by a group of garden gnomes. “Thank Morgana,” she whispers, squeezing Harry’s arm.

“Lunch is ready,” Molly calls out and catches everyone in the living room looking outside. “Oh, my…” She turns to Bill. “Victoire?”

Bill nods.

“She’s very like Ginny, isn’t she?” she says, going back into the kitchen and sending the food out floating towards the table.

Fleur glares. “Delacour, _j’ai dit_.” She holds out a hand to Bill, who helps her up and guides her to the table outside.

Hermione hooks her arm around Harry’s. “Our dates make a lovely couple, don’t they?”

Harry laughs heartily as he leads them out to the table, towards good food and feuding teenagers. “They definitely do.”

/ / / / / / / / / / /

The food is lovely, roast and potatoes and carrots. Teddy sits as far away from Victoire as table distribution will allow and has, by sheer force of will, managed to get his hair blue again. He glares at Victoire, but when she chances a look at him, he looks away.

The attempted drowning was uncalled for, he thinks, but he’s not really sure. He did say something not-very-nice to her, but it feels like an overreaction.

He turns his attention instead to Harry and Hermione, who are seated across from him. Hermione keeps stealing Harry’s carrots, and Harry just piles more onto his plate. And she just goes on stealing them. When Harry isn’t looking, Hermione refills his juice.

Teddy wants to laugh out loud. Two of the people he cares most for in the world love one another and they are completely oblivious. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad. He looks over to Ginny and Ron, who are animatedly talking about the escaped dates. Everyone noticed the failed matchmaking attempt – or the successful yet unwitting match that was actually made.

“You are the worst people to find dates for,” Ginny says, hands in the air. Arthur, who had been in his workshop with George, seems awfully confused, both by the two empty place-settings and the conversation. “Johnson is a catch, Hermione, a catch.”

“He was, for Miss Frankestein.”

“It’s S-C-H-E-L-L-Y, it’s spelled different,” Ron points out. “She’s an excellent auror.”

“She’s lactose-intolerant, Ron,” Ginny counters. “That was never going to work, half of Harry’s chocolates have milk in them.”

“I couldn’t really find anyone else, I’ve basically cycled through all my friends now, men and women, for Harry,” Ron replies. “I’m this close to looking up old girlfriends and seeing if any of them will have a go.”

Harry tries not to choke on his potato.

Hermione smiles kindly. “As Trelawney would say, you should both take it as a sign.”

“You’re both on Chocolate-Frog Cards. It really shouldn’t be this hard,” George says.

Angelina swats his arm playfully, in warning. She looks up to get a glance at their children, who have eaten their fill and have taken to running around the yard. “They better not take after Teddy and jump in the pond.”

“I did not jump,” Teddy says, his mouth half-full but feeling he must interject.

“He was involuntarily bathed,” Bill contributed, looking sideways at Victoire, who just melts down into her chair with a flush.

Teddy wills his hair to stay blue and looks at Harry, who controls his amused face into a neutral face. Teddy takes a deep breath and lets it all go. He looks over at Molly and Arthur. “Should I bring out the pudding?” he asks, giving them his best smile.

“Yes, dear, thank you,” Molly says, beaming up at Teddy. “He is such a good boy,” she tells Harry, who again has to stop himself from choking, this time on his juice.

Hermione pats Harry’s back. “Yes, a very nice boy.”

From inside the house, Teddy watches them, an idea forming in his mind. It’s probably a very bad idea, but now it is in his mind, and he is nothing if he is not very much like Harry Potter


	6. December 7th, 2015

Harry decides to magnanimously allow Teddy to Apparate to work on his own.

It is probably the worst decision he has ever made, and his nerves are shot. He waits in the shop with a small first aid kit that Hermione bought him once (“You have way too many cuts on your hands and your healing charms are sub-par” she’d declared) and fingers crossed. But it’s not Teddy who shows up at the door. It’s Victoire.

“Uncle Harry, is everything alright?” she asks when Harry opens the door. She looks around, trying to figure out what he’s staring at. “Am I early?”

Harry smiles. Victoire is a strong, independent sixteen-year-old, who probably flooed into the Leaky and who does not care for his own personal dramas. “Teddy is apparating on his own,” Harry explains anyway.

Victoire takes off her coat and scarf and makes a beeline for one of the aprons. “Is that safe?”

Harry laughs. “Marginally,” he says. “Thanks for this,” he adds.

“You will pay me, oui?” Victoire says, her raised eyebrow is all Fleur.

“Oui, certainly,” Harry replies.

It’s funny, listening to Victoire speak. She has almost no trace of a French accent, speaking mostly like Bill with a few French words interspersed here and there. But Harry has been in the presence of Victorie and Fleur and Dominique speaking rapidfire French that no one else in the Weasley house will understand, with Bill throwing his hands up and pretending exasperation. He thinks she’ll fit right in at Hogwarts, with her wit and spark. She does hope that the Delacour in her that Fleur so proudly boasts of won’t get her in too much trouble.

“Alright, so you get your pick since you’re early. Kitchen or shop?” Harry asks, pulling his own apron on.

“Kitchen,” she says, assertive. “I am not very good with people.”

“Fleur mentioned something,” Harry concedes.

And then, with a whoosh of snowflakes, Teddy is outside the door. He pushes the door open, shaking the snow from his hair. “One piece,” he says, and stops cold. “What’s she doing here?” he asks, the memory of the cold pond fresh in his mind.

“Victoire is going to work here for the holidays. And you are both…” Harry gives pointed looks at both teens. “You are both going to behave accordingly. No pranks, no dunking each other’s heads in chocolate, and no fighting in front of customers.”

“This is bollocks,” Teddy mutters.

Harry raises an eyebrow at him. “Language.”

Victoire gives Harry a small smile and nods. “Oui, Uncle Harry.”

Grace brushes past Teddy on her way into the shop, taking off her scarf and leather jacket. “Oh, good, the new apprentice. Brilliant,” she says, giving Victoire a quick peck on the cheek. “Now we look like a legitimate business.”

Grace looks at Teddy, Harry and Victoire who all just stand very still. “Well, go on, then. Chocolates aren’t going to make themselves.” She clapped her hands three times and even Harry felt the full force of Grace’s beckoning.

“Yes, Ma'am,” Teddy said, with a smirk, as Victoire and Harry made their way into the back.

/ / / / / / / / / / / /

Victoire has a gift with sugar.

“Do be careful, caramel burns are very dangerous.” Harry had only needed to say it once and then not again, as he watched her swirl the sugar and water around the pot.

“I’ve done this many times, with Grandmere Delacour, for the croquembouche.”

“Right,” Harry says, a bit in awe. “Merlin.”

He sighs and goes back to the ganache he was working on. He is being outwitted by smart-mouth teenagers every day now, and it is getting rather annoying.

Victoire keeps mixing. When she suddenly steps away from the pot but leaves the whisk moving, Harry lifts his eyes. “Uhm… you can’t use magic outside school, can you?” Harry asks.

“There is no such rule for Beauxbatons if I am supervised by an adult,” she mentions. “Will it be a problem for Hogwarts?”

“I…” Harry starts, but is unsure. “I actually don’t know, really. I’ll ask Hermione. Better safe than sorry, I think.” He casts a silent finite and Victoire returns to the pot with the sea salt.

“Aunt Hermione will know, she is very clever,” Victoire says, taking the pan off the hob.

Harry can’t hide his grin. “Yes, she is.”

They work quietly for a few hours, before Victoire sighs loudly after placing the caramels in the fridge. “Uncle Harry?” she asks.

“Yes?”

“Do you think I’ll sort Slytherin?” Victoire shifts her weight from one loafered foot to the other.

Harry finishes pouring the dark chocolate into the molds, and looks up at Victoire. “I don’t really know. The sorting hat is a funny thing, the hat is. What was your… house at Beauxbatons?”

“We do not have houses at Beauxbatons, we are separated in boys and girls and room alphabetically.”

“Oh. Well, why are you worried that you’ll sort Slytherin?” Harry asks, curiously leaning back against the counter, wordlessly waving his wand over the cooling chocolate so as to leave it in stasis.

She looks up sheepishly. “Teddy said I will sort Slytherin because I am evil, and so are all Slytherins.”

Harry doesn’t really know whether to laugh or not, but at least everything is much clearer now. “And then you pushed him into the pond.”

“Well, yes, because I am not evil. Mother says I have the Delacour temper.”

Harry does laugh now, because it is funny. “The hat thought I should be in Slytherin. I asked it not to be, and it put me in Gryffindor, but I think the hat just does what it likes.” Harry summons a jar of candied cherries into his hands and pops it open. He hands it to Victoire, pointing to the trays of chocolates that need filling. “If you do sort Slytherin, it is not so bad. I have good friends who were in that house. Many brave men and women in the war. It used to have a bad reputation, but now it is just like the other houses. It’s all about the people in them.”

Victoire drops cherries into each division of the chocolate tray, nodding unsure.

“If you are a Slytherin, then it will be a grand house this year.” Harry looks towards the front of the shop, where Teddy and Grace are tending to the bustling shop-goers. “I think Teddy just said that to rile you up. Just… if he says something like that again, ignore him. Or you can tell me and I’ll have a talk with him.”

“No!” Victoire says, alarmed. “Please don’t tell him I said anything. He’ll only make everything harder.” In her distress, she lets the glass jar go and Harry catches it mid-air. He continues with the task at hand.

“How so?” Harry asks.

“He’s popular, everyone likes him at Hogwarts. Fred said so,” Victoire explains. Young Fred is a third year and Roxanne is a first year and of course they look up to Teddy. But Harry can’t really say if Teddy is popular or not. He’s on the Quidditch team for Hufflepuff and he is, if the howlers are to be believed, very much popular with the girls of his year, but he understands how Fred’s assertions could be construed as evidence.

“I won’t say anything. I promise,” Harry says, a hand crossing over his heart. “You want to work on the Ladybugs next?”

Victoire perks up and nods happily, and Harry breathes out a sigh of relief. He doesn’t want to meddle unnecessarily and he knows any meddling he might do will undoubtedly be unnecessary.

He keeps on working, diligently, and lets the chips fall where they may. He peers out the door to the front of the shop and catches Teddy watching Victoire with interest.

And Harry just thinks, “Huh.” And then he lets the thought pass.

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / /

When they arrive back at 12 Grimmauld Place, walking from the spot where Harry’s haphazard apparition had dropped them, the distinct smell of delicious leftovers being reheated in the kitchen fills the air. Harry is at a loss.

“Molly?” he asks, loudly. He knows better than to draw his wand and look like a right tosser again.

“Lord have Mercy, no. Please tell me I don’t sound like her.” Hermione’s voice comes from the kitchen. She pops her head into the hall. “I pooled our leftovers because I really didn’t feel like eating alone. I hope that’s alright.”

“It’s perfect,” Harry says, and then he catches himself. “Fine, I mean. I mean, it’s good.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow at him. “Good.”

Teddy elbows Harry in the ribs and goes into the kitchen. “I’ll lay the table,” he offers, and rolls his eyes at Harry.

Right, Harry thinks. Don’t be weird.

“Bad day at the Ministry?” Harry attempts, making his way into the kitchen to wash his hands.

Hermione sighs softly. “Just a bit of the same crap, really. Everyone keeps getting a bit more polite about their blatant pure-blood shite, like we didn’t have a war over this less than twenty years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. The only times he regrets not pursuing a Ministry Career are the times that wizards or goblins give Hermione a hard time. She’s worked so hard, and to see her still running into solid walls because some wizards are just… “I wish…”

She swats his shoulder with a dishtowel. “Oh, shush. You’d be bored out of your skull in the Wizengamot.”

“I would. Still, I hate that they’re not treating you well,” Harry offers.

“They treat me just fine. They just… act like they’re doing me a favor. And frankly, somedays I just want to scream at them. I prefer it when they treat me like crap, so I can react accordingly. I’m just supposed to smile at everyone like I don’t notice they’re looking down on me. That, I hate with a fiery passion.” She brings down the flame on the hob and sautés the vegetables slowly. “I just wish… oh, I really don’t know what I wish for.”

“For everyone to bugger off?” Harry suggests.

“For everyone to treat me like an equal. Now everyone’s upset about the meeting with the Queen and the P.M. But it’s my job. I’m the one that has to take that meeting, but you’d think I… stole the chance away from someone else. I just hope Kingsley never leaves his post. The next Minister will probably just… Lock me away in some dungeon to do paperwork.”

Harry grins at the thought. “Not if you’re the next Minister.”

“That will be the day,” Hermione says, but doesn’t look displeased at Harry’s suggestion. “A Muggle-born Minister for Magic, there would be a rise in the use of Howlers.”

Teddy finishes with the forks and knives and chimes in. “You’d be a wonderful Minister for Magic,” he says.

“She would, wouldn’t she,” Harry concurs.

Hermione rolls her eyes and plates up the food. “Do not talk about me like I’m not here, Harry Potter.” She pokes him in the chest, between two buttons of his shirt. “Always remember, I know all your secrets.”

Harry raises his arms in mock-surrender. “I wouldn’t dare.” But he leans in to Hermione and he can hear her breath catching. “You would make the best Minister for Magic the country has ever seen. And you’ve got the most important credentials already.”

“What are those?” Hermione asks softly.

It’s then Harry realizes how close he is, how close they are. But it’s too late, he can’t back away now, and he tries not to think of Teddy watching him and judging how uncool he is at this very moment.

“The Royal Corgis liked you.”

Hermione’s laugh erupts and grows and Harry sighs in relief.

“They really did,” she agrees, and takes the plates to the table. Harry follows her and Teddy floats over a bottle of sparkling water for them all.

/ / / / / / / /

When dinner is over, Teddy excuses himself and Harry knows he’s cast a silencing charm. The dull vibration of the drum kit tells him it’s not a very good silencing charm.

Hermione picks the plates up from the table and starts up the wash. “I just dropped by without saying anything, didn’t I?”

Harry shrugs. “You are always welcome here.”

“Yes, well, you could have had plans,” she says, and Harry hears his own concerns echoed back at him as he carries the glasses over to Hermione.

“On Leftovers Monday? Never.”

Hermione bumps his leg with her hip, careful to keep her hands under the running water. “Really, Harry, you’d tell me if I was intruding.”

“Hermione…”

“Harry…”

“I’d tell you, but you’re not and you never will.”

“I do not want to find you with your trousers ‘round your ankles.”

Harry blushes furiously at the thought. “Hermione!”

“We’re all adults here,” she says, but Harry can tell she’s flushing a bit too.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, because if you did say that, I’d have to let Malfoy know.”

“You wouldn’t.” Hermione splashes sink water at Harry, who backs away from it just in time.

“You know how he is, he’d get it out of me.”

“Fine. I take it back. Pretend I didn’t say that.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Harry starts drying the dishes Hermione hands him, and places them in their respective cupboards.

He enjoys this. As much as he loves watching Molly cook and serve and clean using magic exclusively, he likes having the chance to do some things the Muggle way. Hermione is one of the few people he can share the accomplishment of doing things with his hands, not his wand. He doesn’t say it enough, how much it means to him to have her in his life, mostly because he thinks that if he started to say something like that, so much more would come out. He’d tell her everything, and he wouldn’t be able to stop until it was too late.

So he dries the dishes.

Hermione finishes and dries her hands. She sneaks over to the pantry and flicks her wand at the highest shelf, winking at Harry. A bottle floats down to her hands.

“I think it’s officially cold enough to have one on a weekday,” Hermione says, pouring two measures of his best firewhiskey into his Asterix and Obelix Nutella glasses.

“So fancy,” he murmurs, looking at the glass she hands him.

“They’re your glasses. Also, I’ve told you a hundred times to get some decent glasses. You probably threw out so much glassware when you remodeled.”

“The cupboards were bastards and didn’t like me. I wasn’t about to go prying.”

Hermione concedes, and raises a glass. “Here’s to it being cold enough.”

“Cheers,” Harry agrees, clinking glasses with her. He sips slowly, guarding himself. She drinks faster, as if she’s in a rush.

“Did you mean it?” she asks, her cheeks flushed from the liquor, a soft plume of smoke leaving her mouth as she speaks.

“Mean what?” he asks, his mouth dry. Her eyes glass over when she drinks and her lips go red, and he wants nothing more than to kiss her. His hands fist against his jeans.

“Do you really think I’d be a good Minister for Magic?”

Harry finishes his drink. Screw it. “You’d be absolutely perfect.”

She breaches the distance between them and kisses his cheek softly.

“What was that for?” he asks, stupidly touching the spot she’s just kissed.

“For being you. You’ve always done impossible things, so you believe in impossible things. You make them seem slightly less impossible.” She laughs at herself. “That makes no sense, but I don’t care.” She sighs and leaves her glass in the sink, then floats the bottle back over to the pantry. “I should go. I have an Elven Council meeting at nine.”

“Kreacher driving you mad?” Harry asks, grateful for the change of subject. He feels dizzy and it isn’t the whiskey. He can take the whiskey.

“Isn’t he always?”

Hermione pulls on her coat and seems to remember something. She pulls a box out of her coat pocket. “Here.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t it early for Christmas presents?”

She sighs. “It’s a mobile. My old one. I already put in Teddy’s number, my number and Draco’s.”

“Teddy has a mobile?”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “All teenagers do. I’m leaving you with instructions, and I wrote out how to charge it at work or here in the kitchen. Please do not try to charge it with magic, it will explode. Understood?”

Harry nods slowly. “Understood.”

“Good.” She sighs softly. “You can send pictures and such, but I wouldn’t tell Draco, you know how he vain he is, he will drown you in selfies.”

“Selfies?” Harry asks.

She smiles kindly and ruffles Harry’s hair. “Nevermind. I’ll explain some other time.” She disappears through the floo, without so much as a goodnight. This is the way Harry prefers it, also, because not saying goodnight feels a bit like being together all the time.

He kicks himself mentally for thinking it. He picks up her glass from the sink and stares at the marks of her lipstick on the rim for more time than is possibly healthy. And then he looks at the mobile with mild curiosity.

/ / / / / / / /

Teddy has always been grateful for having Weasleys in his life. Namely, George Weasley. Particularly, George’s talent for gifts.

Extendable Ears, for example.

He’s eavesdropped on the exchange between Hermione and Harry and he wants to groan at how absolutely daft they both are. Completely clueless.

His question in the car had been designed to piss off Harry, of course. But there is more than that. Teddy really wants Harry to be happy. And at the end of the day, Harry is happiest with Hermione.

He’s watched Harry ever since he was little. Harry and Ginny made absolutely no sense, but Ginny has always been kind to him, and he understands why it happened and why it ended. The string of dates were never something that Teddy got to see. He did see Harry attempt something more serious, once or twice, but nothing ever stuck, neither with men nor with women.

And through that time, Teddy has also watched everyone else’s lives around them change. All of Harry’s friends have made lives for themselves and seem so full and happy. But Harry always has a bit of a cloud overhead.

And then there is Hermione. Hermione works, so hard. And she stops by and takes care of Harry and puts up with Harry, and Harry just looks at her with puppy-dog eyes, and Teddy can’t stand it. They should be together.

But they’re not.

Teddy flops back onto his bed and thinks.

Maybe there is something he can do.

Maybe…

He thinks of all these years of hearing tales of adventures and schemes and mischief, from Harry and Ron and George.

He thinks that maybe he’s ready to make some mischief all his own.


	7. December 8th, 2015

The morning is uneventful, and Teddy is grateful. There seems to be a lull in the Christmas order process, which Grace explains is absolutely normal. “You get the early birds, and the last-minuters, and in the middle you get a bit of peace. It lasts only a couple days, mind.”

The lull means that Grace doesn’t need him in the front, so he’s pushed by her into the back towards the kitchens.

Harry puts him up to chopping, almonds and hazelnuts and dried oranges, making neat little piles and then setting them into bowls. Victoire is busy with the process of candying fruit and nuts, of making caramel.

But Harry brings it all together. He is a general in his own right, a conductor to the chocolate orchestra.

“Harry, can you come up front, please?” Grace calls. This happens a few times a week. People want to see Harry’s face, and sometimes they will ask for him. Grace doesn’t always call him up, but sometimes it’s necessary.

Harry nods, and looks at Teddy and Victoire. “Why don’t you both go get some lunch? Put it on my tab at the Fairylights,” he suggests. He flicks his wand towards the stove, effectively stopping Victoire’s work with a stasis charm. “It’s an order. You’re _not_ staying in my kitchen unsupervised.”

Teddy shrugs, but Harry offers a raised eyebrow. The exchange is clear, and Teddy folds his apron. “Let’s go out the back,” he tells Victoire.

She follows him closely, catching up to him a few feet into the alley behind the kitchens. “Slow down, Lupin,” she says, smirking as she matches his pace. “You are much taller than me.”

Teddy rolls his eyes. “Keep up.”

“Like a beanstalk,” she adds, keeping up. Teddy wouldn’t lose her on purpose, because she doesn’t know where the Fairylights Café is, but he wouldn’t mind misplacing her anyway. Having a blonde Weasley following him around isn’t going to do him any good.

When they arrive at the café, it’s almost empty. They take the free table by the windows and grab the menus that float over to them. “What is good here?” Victoire asks.

“Don’t get the leek soup. Everything else is good, but that tastes cursed,” Teddy whispers.

Victoire smiles. “You’re being almost nice to me. Are you feeling alright?”

Teddy narrows his eyes at her. “I don’t want you to drown me again.”

“I know where all the good fountains are in Diagon Alley,” she says, face serious.

They order. The café is quiet and the scent of fresh-baked bread fills the air. “Harry says it’s not so bad to be Slytherin. But I want to be Ravenclaw,” Victoire states firmly. “I’ve been reading about it. Maman gave me a book from Aunt Hermione.”

Teddy sighs and looks up at the waitress who places their food in front of them. He attempts a charming smile, but the woman is probably twenty-two and the smile doesn’t land well. He mouths a polite thank you. “Let me guess… Hogwarts, A History.”

“Oui, very interesting.”

Teddy laughs. “She’s given all of us a copy, like me and all the Weasley kids, whenever someone goes to Hogwarts.”

“Well, it’s brilliant.” Victoire starts to eat. Her sandwich and chips look better than his quiche, which he just ordered to impress the waitress who ignored him. He attempts to steal a chip when Victoire isn’t looking, but she slaps his hand away.

Teddy is faster, and takes another chip. “What do you think about Hermione?” he asks.

“She is very smart. Papa says she will be Minister for Magic one day. Would be already if she wasn’t Muggleborn, that it shouldn’t matter anymore but it does.”

Teddy frowns. “She’s too good for the Ministry.”

“Oiu, Maman says that, also.” She takes a sip from her tea then wrinkles her forehead. “Why do you ask?”

“I need your help,” Teddy says, finally.

Victoire laughs. “Why would I help you? You are not very nice.”

“I’m being nice now.”

“Because you want something.”

Teddy groans. “Come on, at least hear me out.”

“I’ll hear you and then I decide if I want to help.” Victoire slaps his hand away from his chips again. “And get your own _frittes_.”

Teddy can feel his hair start to shift in color, and controls his breathing to stop it. “I want to get Harry and Hermione to admit that they love each other.”

Victoire narrows her eyes. “ _Tu es fou_. How do you say… mental!”

“Why?”

“If they loved each other, we’d know. I mean, Papa and Maman would have said. Or Grandmere Molly. Weasleys are not very… quiet.” Victoire says. “Also, Harry likes women and men, Maman explained. Maybe he doesn’t want to choose yet.”

“Trust me, they are in love and very stupid. Grownups often are,” Teddy explains. “Come on, I need to come up with ideas and two are better than one at planning.”

Victoire is silent for a minute. She thinks. Then a slow smile creeps into her face. “Two are better than one, especially if one of the two is me. I will help on two conditions. _Une_ , if this blows up in our noses..."

"In our faces," Teddy corrects.

Victoire rolls her eyes. "If it blows up in our faces I will pretend I’ve never had this conversation. _Deux_ , when we go to Hogwarts you will be nice to me. Nice enough that people will think I’m cool, too.”

“Cool?”

“I’ve heard rumors that you’re cool. Because of the changing your face thing.”

“Metamorphmagus, that’s what it’s called. What I am.”

“Yes, that.” She waves it away as if it is inconsequential, and Teddy is almost annoyed. “So I’ll be cool by… association.” She smiles. “Do we have a deal?”

Teddy extends his hand to shake hers. She takes it.

He uses his other hand to grab a chip.

She lets go of his hand, indignant. “That makes me seriously mistrust the agreement.”

“No agreement was reached on the subject of chips,” Teddy says, taking another. He feels surprisingly light. She may not have been his first choice of ally, but she is here, she has access, she knows the players. She is, basically, a good choice of ally.

She’s also not hard to look at, but he will just push that thought away, thinking of Bill Weasley and his fang earing and his prominent werewolf-attack scar.

“You should become a politician,” Victoire muses, and moves her plate further out of Teddy’s reach, and slaps his hand away again. “Arrêtez!”

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / /

When Victoire and Teddy come back from lunch, they share a light camaraderie that makes Harry just a little uncomfortable. Two teenagers in cahoots is better than two teenagers fighting, he thinks, but he isn’t sure how much better. He also thinks that he better keep an eye out, thinking of the Howlers.

It’s a bit past six when Bill drops by to pick up Victoire. Victoire puts away her things and hangs up her apron, while Bill looks around the display case and picks out chocolates for Fleur. “What do you suggest?” he asks Harry.

“I have it on good authority that everything’s good, but I don’t want to get flayed if your very pregnant wife doesn’t like something,” Harry replies.

Bill rolls his eyes. “I will lie for you, say I chose the lot. That way if she likes them, I get all the praise.”

“Get the cherry bombs and the ladybugs and a Forest of Dean,” Victoire suggest, smiling. “Those are my favorites.”

Bill places a protective arm around his daughter’s shoulder and smiles at Grace. “Insider information?” he asks.

“I’ll pack those up for you,” Grace says. “When is Fleur due?”

“Next week,” Bill says, handing Grace some coins. “Anything in here that will speed that along?”

Harry raises his hands up in mock surrender. “That’s a bit out of my area of expertise.”

Bill shrugs. “Well, I tried. Come on, Victoire, let’s go back before we witness a scale-version of the French Revolution.”

Victoire laughs. “Maman does not have a guillotine,” she protests, but pulls on her coat. “Bye, Uncle Harry, Grace, Teddy!” she calls out.

They all wave at her as she leaves. Teddy shrugs into his own coat as well, nodding at Harry. “Off to Grandma’s,” he says.

“How are you getting there?”

“Apparating,” Teddy states. Harry opens his mouth but Teddy cuts him off. “I will not splinch myself. And Andromeda knows loads of healing spells.”

“I’ll have my mobile if you need me. You’re staying the night, right?” Harry asks. He feels for his mobile in his trousers and smiles just a bit. 

Teddy nods. “Just… don’t worry, ok? I’ll be fine.”

Teddy draws his wand and closes his eyes, and disappears with a quick pop.

A few minutes later, a message beeps on Harry’s mobile. It’s from Teddy. It reads, “I’m fine.”

Harry smiles and nods at Grace. “You alright to close up?”

Grace shoos him out of the shop.

Harry walks a few steps and disappears as well.

/ / / / / / / /

“Pear and brie,” Harry says, squinting at the pizza in front of him. “You’re taking the piss.”

Draco looks skywards in annoyance. “Don’t be a heathen and eat the damn thing. Pear and brie is a perfectly logical culinary decision.”

“Not on pizza it isn’t.”

“You’re an authority on pizza now?”

“One of us went to culinary school, and it wasn’t you,” Harry points out.

Draco rolls his eyes. “Yes, by all means, drag out your credentials.”

Harry scratches the back of his head. “I just mean, why must we always go somewhere different instead of going back to one of the nice places we’ve already gone to where they have pizzas we’ve already tried? Like the one with pepperoni and hot honey? That was good. Or even the one with melon and prosciutto?” Harry argues, taking a bite. It’s not bad, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Because we’re being adventurous, and we’re trying new things,” Draco says, taking an experimental bite of his own. “Also, I shagged the waiter at the melon and prosciutto place and I never called, so that’s verboten now.”

Harry laughs. There is an ease in his friendship with Draco, and he likes that Draco has managed to learn to loosen up and enjoy muggle things. Draco likes muggle restaurants and how they are nearly infinite, new ones appearing all the time. His thing this year is pizzas. Last year it was burgers, before that it was thai cuisine, before that it was Indian food. And every week he drags Harry along for the ride.

“Verdict?” Harry asks.

“I think I might have to apologize to the waiter at the other place,” he admits, letting the pizza fall back on the plate. “Want to get a backup?”

Harry shrugs. “Eh, it’s not that bad. It’s an acquired taste. Just pick off the pear.”

/ / / / / / / / / /

Teddy’s room at his grandmother’s house is a bit more personalized than the room at 12 Grimmauld Place. Still, he’s always found Andromeda’s house a bit stuffy. He used to think it was a Black Family thing, but he knows now it’s a bit of an age thing.

Teddy knows that raising him was probably not what Andromeda was expecting of life. Still, whenever she sees him transform the tips of his ears or his hair color or his eyecolor, she tells him how much he resembles his Mum, and for a second he believes it.

The house used to be filled with tapestries and paintings. But over the years, Andromeda started to take down the paintings and put up pictures: of Teddy at different ages, of Teddy with Harry. Then she found old pictures of his Mum (Dora, Andromeda called her, but Harry called her Tonks, and that’s the name that stuck), then a few pictures of his Dad, and only one picture they had as a family, his Mum, his Dad, and himself as a small child.

He’d overheard the conversation when he was about six years old. Harry asking, begging Andromeda to put up the pictures. He’d explained that he hadn’t seen his parents in photographs until he was eleven, and how much time he’d lost not knowing where their graves were, and how much he longed to know more.

And so Andromeda started to tell him more. About his Mum, a fearless Auror. And Harry told him about his Dad, a teacher and a werewolf. When Teddy was old enough, Harry taught him to conjure his patronus, a Wolf Cub, and Harry had laughed with tears in his eyes as he explained about his Dad. And Teddy had laughed and cried as well.

“Andromeda?” he calls out, through the house. “Want a sandwich?”

She hates when he doesn’t call her Grandma, but she likes sandwiches. “Bacon?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“With tea, please.”

She sits elegantly at the kitchen table, and eyes the fireplace. “You apparated quite nicely today,” she says.

“I’m getting better,” he admits.

She wrings her hands as he puts on the kettle. “How are things with Harry?” she asks, and Teddy knows she’s been waiting to ask him.

“Fine,” he says, shrugging. “It’s alright.”

He doesn’t know how to talk to his grandmother anymore. He thinks that it may just be that he doesn’t know what to tell her and what to keep to himself.

These days, he feels that school is hard. That living up to his father’s reputation at school is tough. That being the only metamorphmagus in school makes him different, and that being a child of a Marauder makes him unique, and that McGonagall looks at him like she expects more from him, all the time.

And that being the godson of Harry Potter gives him one more thing to live up to. Or even to rise above, because he was a child hero but now he makes chocolates, and everyone just sort of wants to know what he, Teddy Lupin, son of an Auror and a werewolf, will do.

And that he has no idea.

“Do you have any plans for Christmas, aside from lunch at the Weasley’s and dinner with Aunt Narcissa?” he asks, hoping to change the subject and happy that he manages to.

As Andromeda launches into an explanation of her gift-selection process for her sister, Teddy smiles and nods and finishes making the tea and hopes that he can keep the conversation away from himself the rest of the evening.

/ / / / / / / / / /

By the time they finish the brie and no-longer-pear pizza, they’re on their fourth pint and a second, regular cheese pizza.

“This is your problem,” Draco starts, but stops midsentence to smile at bloke walking by. “What was I saying?” he asks, taking a slice of the thankfully-normal pizza and stuffing it into his mouth.

“I have no problem. _You_ have no attention span.”

“Ah, yes, your love life,” Draco continues.

“Malfoy…”

“Potter…”

They stare each other down as the new pints arrive at the table, rudely interrupting the stand-off.

Harry leans back on his seat. “There’s nothing to discuss. I have no love life.”

“That’s exactly what we’re discussing… the why of it.”

“Alright, I’ll bite. Why do I have no love life?” Harry asks, because five pints is his limit and he’s reaching it.

“Because you’re a rare new breed.” Draco holds up a new slice of pizza and tips it towards Harry, as if he were toasting.

“What does that even mean?” Harry wants to laugh, but doesn’t. The pizza is good, the pint is almost warm, and Draco makes no sense.

“What I mean is… What I mean is that you’re never going to go on a real date and find someone to fuck or to fuck you, if you don’t get over Granger.”

Harry sputters, a bit of beer spraying out of his mouth. “What?”

“Yes! Listen, I have this theory…” Malfoy says, leaning in. “You’re not heterosexual or homosexual or bisexual. You’re Hermione-sexual. It’s a problem.”

"Good grief, Draco. _A_ , that’s a bit offensive, and _B,_ I am bisexual,” Harry states, a bit louder than he intended. A couple of people turn to look at him, then look away. Draco smirks. “Wanker,” Harry adds, under his breath.

“I know you are, although I haven’t actually seen you… you know… in action either way in years.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s not as if I’m advertising. I’m not a monk.”

“Potter, you know what I mean. You should give yourself a deadline or something. Like your cutoff date for chocolate orders for Christmas. And if you don’t do anything by then, you should let this Granger thing go.”

“What Granger thing?” Harry asks, pretending.

Draco sighs. “I know you are not that stupid. Everyone and their mother can see that you are crazy about Hermione. You have blinders on and you can’t see anyone else. I mean, if you were really paying attention, you’d see this gorgeous creature right in front of you, you know?”

“Every other man and woman on earth would have to disappear before I would even consider the possibility of shagging you,” Harry states dryly.

Draco shrugs. “And that’s your tragic loss, but also completely beside the point. You are taking monogamy to a whole pathetic new level, with this exclusive relationship you have with your hand and your fantasies of Granger.”

“We are not discussing wanking,” Harry says, but he knows it’s too late, and Draco goes into a tirade about wanking habits and mental health that Harry could probably do without.

The sixth pint comes and goes, and then the seventh, and Harry starts laughing softly to himself while Draco motions for the waiter to bring the check. “Hermione-sexual,” Harry whispers, laughing a bit louder now.

“It’s what you are. Or what you want to be?” Draco muses on the etymology of it for a moment, then waves it away. “Just tell her already, you tit.”

“No,” Harry says. “If I tell her, she’ll knoooow.” The word stretches unnecessarily and he feels a bit pissed.

“Yes, exactly. You are the worst drunk.” Draco laughs and places a few bank notes on the table, then takes the receipt. “You want her to know.”

“She doesn’t want me back,” Harry says, softly, swaying as he gets up.

Draco sighs, steadying Harry as they walk out of the pizza place. “You don’t know that. You’ll never know until you try or you’ll die not knowing, like the cowardly fool that you are.”

“I’m a brave Gryffindor.”

“You’re a daft bugger,” Draco argues. “An idiot who can’t hold his drink.”

“I love her,” Harry says softly.

“I know.” Draco stops walking. It’s cold and windy and it looks like it might snow. He stands in front of Harry, and places his hands on Harry’s shoulders. “Do you need me to walk you home or will you make it alright?”

“I will be fine, Malfoy.” Harry promises, his eyes focusing on Draco’s for a second, before he gets blurry all over again. “I can’t tell her, okay? Don’t make me tell her.”

Draco sighs. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, but I want you to mark this day on your calendar as the day you were drunk, stupid and stubborn and refused to accept that if you want to have an actual love life and maybe get laid on a semi-regular basis you should probably tell Granger how you feel.”

“Fine, it has been marked.” Harry draws an imaginary x on his imaginary calendar with an imaginary quill. “See?”

Draco nods. “Now I’m going to go to a bar and find a nice bloke to shag, and you’re going to go home. You are going to walk there. You are not going to apparate. Understood?”

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Harry says, with a half-smile that he thinks hides his drunkenness. It does not.

“That’s more like it,” Draco says, patting Harry in the back.

Harry watches Draco walk back in the direction of the pizza place, further down the street past two pubs in the direction of the club. As soon as Draco disappears down the corner, Harry palms his wand and disapparates.

/ / / / / / / / / /

Harry pops back into being in the middle of a living room.

Not his living room.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, a bit louder than he should. He drops onto the couch with a thud.

Marlowe meows loudly.

Hermione runs out of the bedroom with her wand held up high, wearing only a large t shirt and very wooly tall socks. “Harry!” she calls out, lowering her wand. “I almost hexed you, you arse!”

“I’m sorry… I tried to apparate home,” he tries to stand but his knees drop him back on the couch.

“Of course. It’s Tuesday. Bloody Malfoy,” she mutters. She points her wand at Harry like an accusing index finger. “You could have been splinched, like, actually hurt. Half of you here, half of you in some piss-stained alley. You can barely apparate sober. I will kill Draco next time I see him, I swear. He should know better than to believe you when you say you won’t do something stupid.” She sighs and checks him over. “One of these days you are going to find the bad luck you’ve been magically avoiding all these years, and it will bite you in the arse.”

Harry shrugs. “I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head, reverting from nagging to caring. “It’s fine.” She points her wand at Harry’s trainers, which unlace themselves and drop to the floor. “Come on, lie back. I’ll get you a blanket. You can’t possibly floo or apparate home in this state. Teddy’s with Andromeda?”

Harry nods.

“Good.” She sighs and drops a blanket over Harry as he settles on his back. She sits down by his feet and pats his knee. “You’re kind of like my very own stray cat.”

Harry meows, then laughs. “My head is going to hurt so much tomorrow.”

“Yes, hangovers at thirty-five are very unpleasant.”

“It’s all Draco’s fault, really.”

Hermione laughs softly. “I don’t doubt it. You and him and your gourmet fish and chips and your appalling ingestion of lager.”

“It was pizza and IPA,” Harry groans. “Horrible pizza.”

Hermione stands but Harry holds up a hand to hers. She laces her fingers with his, but gives him a sad look. “Harry, I need to sleep in order to not murder the head of the House Elf Coalition or the Minister for Magic, thus ending all progress on the amendments to the Equality of Creatures Act.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She sighs and leans down to kiss his forehead softly. “It’s ok… You’re allowed to be a bit of an idiot once in a while. You know, in exchange for saving the world a few years ago.” Hermione gives his hand a quick squeeze and lets him go. “I will wake you up obscenely early but I’ll have coffee. Do not even think of sneaking out. I want to see your walk of shame.”

But Harry is already asleep when she finishes. She shakes her head with a soft laugh. She pulls the blanket over him and casts a silent warming charm his way. She brushes his hair out of his eyes and walks back into her room, trying not to look back at him, and failing miserably.


	8. December 9th, 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for such a long wait between chapters. Work has been hectic (upside, still have a job, yey!). I hope to post a bit more often the following weeks. Thanks for sticking with it!

When Harry wakes up to the sound of soft radio broadcaster voices and the scent of strong coffee, it takes him a beat to figure out where he is, and half a beat more for the headache to hit him full force. 

“BBC?” he asks, as Hermione approaches him with a mug of coffee on one hand and a glass bottle of sparkling water in the other. She’s already smartly dressed and smirking at him. 

“I was thinking of waking you up to Death Metal, but I’m certain that news about the Leave referendum are a far worse thing to wake up to.” She turns up the telly and drops onto the sofa next to him. “How’s the headache?”

“I deserve it and I will bear it,” he states gamely. “I should go home and shower and… get presentable for work.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Drink that coffee first. Otherwise you’ll floo and sick all over yourself.”

Harry watches her over his coffee, how she listens to the telly with great attention, how her trousers are hemmed up and hand stitched, how she’s pulled her hair out of her face with colorful barrettes. She’s a powerful witch but she keeps in touch with these tiny muggle things. He watches her and he thinks back to his stupid confession to Malfoy and he knows. He knows that he does love her and he’d give anything to work up the courage to show her. But he just sips his coffee and wonders.

“What?” she asks, glancing at him sideways. “You’re staring.”

Harry blushes furiously. “Sorry. It’s just, you look very nice today.”

Hermione mirrors Harry’s flush. “Oh, shut it.” She lifts her eyes to the ceiling. “The House Elf Coalition meeting is kind of a big deal and it’s also such a mess. Honestly, I’d rather skive off than go in today.”

“I’m not a moral authority today, I’d rather skive off also, but Grace would kill me and chop me up into the chocolate.”

“Sweeney Todd?” Hermione asks.

Harry nods, downing the last of his bitter coffee. He then opens the water bottle and drinks the whole thing down. “Want to come over later? After your meeting. Skive off from your afternoon stuff and visit,” he suggests enthusiastically, before belching loudly. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he adds, feeling like an idiot.

Hermione laughs heartily. “You are such a Weasley at heart.”

Harry shrugs. “Well?”

“Alright, I’ll come by late afternoon and help you close up, how about that?” Hermione takes Harry’s mug and stands, motioning towards the fireplace. “Now go home, because you smell like brie. Honestly, I need to have a talk with Draco.”

When she disappears into the kitchen, Harry takes his leave. 

/ / / / / / / /

Teddy is in good spirits that morning in the shop, as is Victoire. Grace has even turned on the wireless, and the customers that mill in also seem to be in a very good mood.

Which means, of course, that the only one with a headache and a sulky face is Harry. 

Hungover Harry. 

He just needs to survive today. And maybe have another cup of coffee so he won’t look like death warmed over when Hermione comes. 

“Hermione’s coming today?” Teddy asks. “To the shop?”

Harry realizes too late that he’s spoken out loud. “Yeah, she said she’d give me a hand closing up today, so Grace could have an early day.”

Teddy seems overly pleased with his answer. “Maybe we can have an early day, too. For Christmas shopping.” 

Victoire perks up at the prospect, and Harry feels too weak to argue. “Sure. That sounds fine.”

He always gets a little tightly wound on the days he knows Hermione will come. He fidgets more. He adds too many almonds to the Forest of Dean, and too much firewhiskey to the Drunken Bites. He doesn’t attempt invention when he is in this weird mood, and tries to stay on track with previous plans. But his mind is hazy today, from everything: the beer and his revelation to Draco and apparating worse than he usually does. So allowing the three-quarters of his staff to leave early really does not seem too farfetched. He rubs his temples before going back to spelling ladybugs. 

Sometime around noon, Teddy disappears from the shop for a few minutes and arrives back with a few packages from the Weasleys’ joke shop. One is a vial of Hangman, the hangover potion the Weasleys have patented. He hands it to Harry knowingly. Victoire watches the exchange intrigued. 

Harry accepts the offer, raising an eyebrow at Teddy.

Teddy shrugs. “It got me through the autumn term.”

“I did not need to know that, and this is some shite godparenting on my part, isn’t it?” Harry asks.

“It’s actually kind of nice to know you screw up, too. You’re not perfect and all.” Teddy pulls his apron back on and stashes the other package from the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes in his coat, while Harry tosses back the vial, drinking it in three long gulps. 

“What’s that?” Harry points to Teddy’s coat.

“Just something for later.” Teddy cryptically blushes, his hair taking on a reddish tint. 

Harry sighs. “You know what? I think I’m better off not knowing. Thanks for the potion. Please forget this moment ever happened.” Harry heads into the front of the shop, leaving Victoire and Teddy alone. 

Teddy smiles widely at Victoire. “I have a plan.”

“You said we would make a plan together.” Victoire sets her hands on her hips, indignant.

Teddy shrugs. “The opportunity just came up.” He nods towards his jacket. “But I will need your help implementing it.”

“Does it have to do with whatever it was you got at my Uncles’ shop?” Victoire narrows her eyes knowingly.

“It might…” 

And he leans in to whisper in her ear. 

Victoire’s eyes widen, and she giggles. “That won’t work. Hermione is too smart.”

“No amount of smart works against a Weasley trap. And I am an honorary Weasley,” Teddy says, his hair turning a very bright shade of red. 

She laughs and Teddy can’t help noticing that it is a very nice laugh.   
He shakes that thought away and smiles. “Are you in?”

Victoire nods. “Oui. I am an actual Weasley. How can I resist?” 

/ / / / / / / / / 

Hermione walks in from the cold wrapped in a large green coat and wearing Harry’s scarf. Harry’s heart leaps to his throat as soon as he sees her, snowflakes in her hair. He likes seeing his scarf on her, and now he wouldn’t dream of asking for it back. 

She probably wouldn’t give it back, anyway. As far back as he can remember, Hermione has been stealing his clothes. His old Quidditch t-shirts became her pyjamas at Uni, when she managed to get through muggle law school and an apprenticeship with the goblins simultaneously. She had taken a pair of his socks one rainy afternoon and had never returned them. She inherited his Weasley jumpers when she liked the shade of green that Molly had used. The scarf is just one in a long like of things she has stolen from him, and thinking of it makes his heart skip a beat.

“It’s madness out there, it will turn into a snowstorm any second now,” she claims as she brushes the snow off her shoulders and taps her boots on the welcome mat. “I think you should close early today.”

Grace raises up her hands in quiet praise. “I’ve been saying the same thing! No one is going to come in with this weather.”

Harry shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “But we don’t close until six… it could get better before then.”

Hermione places her hands on her hips and Harry knows he’s being ridiculous. But she understands his ridiculous nature, how he hates closing early, especially since he’d bought adverts in the Quibbler with his opening hours for Christmas. He always thinks of the disappointment of arriving somewhere and finding it closed. He shrugs.

Grace rolls her eyes and puts away her apron. “I’m off,” she says, pulling on her coat and scarf and heading for the door. “Don’t fire me in my absence.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Harry mutters, waving goodbye. 

Hermione takes Grace’s apron and pulls it on. “So, what am I good for?”

Just then Teddy and Victoire rush into the front of the shop, surrounding Hermione in a flurry of motion and excitement, Victoire greeting her in rapid fire French and keeping up the conversation, while Teddy points towards a particularly mangled-looking chocolate ladybug and claiming it as his very own creation. Harry laughs softly and heads to the back. He should just put everything away and close up, he knows Hermione and Grace are right. But he just can’t bring himself to do it. 

He pulls his wand out and places all the ingredients on the marble work slab.

Hermione pops in a few minutes later. The snow in her hair has melted and she shivers a little as she enters the kitchen. 

“What did you do with your admirers?” Harry asks. 

Hermione shrugs. “I told them to give the front of the house a good clean, turn the sign to closed and floo over to Molly’s from the joke shop for some hot chocolate.”

“Hey, I have hot chocolate!” Harry complains, offended.

“You have fancy Mayan Hot Chocolate with Spices, they want regular hot chocolate like the kids that they are,” Hermione replies. She takes a few steps closer to Harry, looking at his work, his hands. “What are you doing?”

Harry grimaces. “Trying to come up with something for Teddy. I want to make something that… something that reminds me of him, something that represents him.”

“Something that changes?” Hermione asks. “Like a mood ring.”

“Yes, sort of. But I haven’t found the flavor yet. Or the precise charm work.”

Hermione’s expression changes, from curiosity to intensity, her eyes ready to meet the challenge. “Show me.”

/ / / / / / / / 

Victoire looks into the kitchen from behind a targeted disillusionment charm. Teddy can still see her, which he finds extremely interesting. 

“Hurry,” she whispers. “And be quiet.”

She watches Hermione and Harry pore over ingredients, and she can hear Hermione making suggestions. “What if we…” she asks, pointing to something on the table. 

Teddy points his wand at the leafy thing he has bought at George and Ron’s shop, and it levitates to the ceiling. He whispers his spellwork on it. 

“Alright, just walk around it, real close to the walls,” he points out. Victoire nods, slinking along the walls. 

“Pity we won’t get to see it work,” Teddy says, a half frown taking residence on his face. 

“We could stand out in the cold, but I rather not,” Victoire replies. “Grandma Molly will have biscuits and tea and hot chocolate.”

Teddy nods. It is very cold, and Molly’s hot chocolate sounds perfect. Anyway, they will find out if they’re successful sooner rather than later. 

“Bye Uncle Harry, Bye Aunt Hermione,” Victoire calls out, pushing Teddy out the door and rushing through the snow towards the joke shop, before they have a chance to hear a reply.

/ / / / / / / / / 

Hermione sighs deeply, the flick of her wand changing just slightly. She mutters the incantation softly and crosser the fingers on her free hand. 

The small chocolate bauble quivers for a second, shimmers into a slightly elongated shape, but quickly snaps back to its previous shape. 

“Damn,” she says, disappointed. She looks up at Harry and shrugs. “Sorry.”

Harry laughs softly at her expression. There usually is nothing Hermione cannot fix or make right. But his idea for this specific project has, apparently, surpassed her transfiguration abilities. “It’s alright. Transfiguring edible items is tricky.”

“Yes, I remember Professor McGonagall used to say that. I’m surprised you paid attention.”

Harry frowns. “Not enough attention, evidently.” He uses his wand to reorganize everything back into its place and leaves the counters and work surfaces clean. “Come on, I’ll let you raid the display case before leaving.”

“And will you also buy me dinner? I do not feel like cooking.” Hermione bumps his hip with hers, and walks through the doorway to the shop before him. 

“Pad-Thai at the The Crimson Dragon?” Harry suggests. He grabs his coat and tosses Hermione hers and hands her his scarf. 

Hermione claps excitedly. “Yes! I am in.”

Harry uses his wand to flick off the lights and walks towards the door.

Suddenly the air rushes out of him. He can’t move.

“Hermione?” he asks. “I can’t move.”

Hermione flicks the lights back on and looks at Harry. 

Harry feels frozen in place, his fingers start to twinge with an icy chill. And then he can’t help it. His mind flashes back to all the times he’s felt like this before. “I can’t move,” he repeats, and his breathing becomes shallower as he starts to think of dementors and curses and the feeling of being petrified and unable to breathe, to move, to speak. Hermione looks around the shop, her wand drawn in attention and starts to look up and down and everywhere, until she sees it, and she would laugh if she wasn’t on the verge of tears. 

She places her hands on Harry’s shoulders, and takes a deep breath. “Harry, you are alright. You are in your shop and there’s nothing here to harm you. It’s just a stupid joke.”

But he can’t breathe, he’s sure of it, and he can feel the tears stinging his eyes and he can’t move forward or back. 

“Just focus on me, okay? Just look at me,” she says, and he does, he looks at her and she’s whole, she’s complete, she isn’t hurt. “I’m alright, you’re alright, there’s nothing here that can hurt you. It’s just Weasley mistletoe and I will hex George’s other ear clean off if he sold Teddy that shite.”

Her words start to filter in and he can feel cold sweat running down his back but he hears Weasley mistletoe and his eyes look up. There’s a sudden wave of relief that washes over him, chased by a flush of embarrassment as he feels the weight of Hermione’s hands on his shoulders.

“I’m alright,” he whispers back to her. “I’m sorry, this is… embarrassing.”

Hermione doesn’t look away. “No, it’s not. It’s just… some things never go away.” 

And he knows. He knows about all the scars that hide under her coat and under his scarf. She knows all his scars and it’s really all there is to it. If someone understands what it means to be barely functional at times because of the smell of lighting in the air, and how it somehow reminds him of the singed smell of the Hogwarts castle after the battle, it is her. 

She looks up at the lingering mistletoe and Harry follows her gaze, and wonders for a beat if Dementors would have been a better thing. 

Hermione pushes up her sleeves, like she’s about to do hard manual labor, and points her wand at the offending leaves. “Finite Incatatem.”

She looks back at Harry. He can barely move his head, but uses his limited range of motion to shake his head no. 

“Yeah, it figures. I swear, George is getting some very strong words tonight.”

“And Teddy. Don’t forget Teddy.” Harry feels a bit of warmth returning to his fingers. 

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “Victoire was in on it, I’m sure.” She pockets her wand. “Well, guess there’s no other way.”

And then she kisses him. 

Her lips press softly against his and he lets out a strangled sound that is more flailing dolphin than anything else. But as soon as he feels her lips on his, the rest of his body regains full motion and it’s all he can do to keep from falling over. He takes hold of her arms and he can’t help it. He kisses back, his lips pulling at hers, and then her mouth is open and inviting and he is moving by instinct, his tongue snaking into her mouth, and the taste of her… He doesn’t quite understand how his hands end up on her hips, under her heavy coat, or how her fingers become tangled in his hair. He doesn’t understand how they maneuver themselves to the wall, until her back is pressed against it, and his body is flush with hers and if he were to open his eyes… 

It’s a flicker of hesitation, not even a second, but then she’s pushing him away softly and she’s looking into his eyes trying to understand, trying to find something… anything… that will make sense. 

But nothing can, and nothing does, and Harry looks down at the floor, embarrassed by his lack of control. “I’m sorry, I…” he says, but she shakes her head.

“It was just… your anxiety and the mistletoe and…” she says, and her lips are swollen and she’s flushed and Harry can’t look away.

“Hermione, I…” He reaches out to take her hand but she takes half a step away from him. He pulls his hand back and stuffs it resolutely in his pocket. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

Hermione nods curtly. “I think it’s best if I go home.”

Harry wants to say something, but her silent disapparition sucks all the air out of the room. 

He points his wand towards the offending mistletoe and hexes it into oblivion, leaving a rather large burn mark on the ceiling. And then he locks the shop up and disapparates.

/ / / / / / / / / 

How he makes it two streets down from 12 Grimmauld Place is practically a miracle. That he doesn’t splinch himself is likewise lucky. 

His instinct is screaming at him to follow Hermione, while also telling him that he should think of some fitting punishment for his meddling godson. But it has taken him years to learn how to fight his stupid instincts. So he just walks in the biting cold, hands in his pockets, bereft of scarf, with a hint of an old hangover. And the kiss just lingers on his lips, and in his head, and it takes up space, and he is angry and he is embarrassed and he is hard.

He is in no shape to attempt to understand what is happening to him, and the only person he wants to talk to right now just ran – or disapparated – away from him. He arrives at 12 Grimmauld Place in a huff of anger and desire, and he heads straight into the shower. He peels off his clothes and his erection springs free, hard against his belly. 

He wraps his hand around his cock and lets the hot water pound against his back as he strokes himself to completion, shivering and desperate.

And then he presses his forehead to the wall and lets the water wash away everything, his sweat, his cum, his tears. 

He takes shallow breaths and tries to think like an adult but fails miserably. He needs to see her. He needs to tell her that he’s sorry, that he’ll never do that again, that he’ll give up anything to have her in his life in any way possible.

Impulsiveness has served him well in the past, but in this case, he suspects, he should be more Ravenclaw and less Gryffindor.

By the time he steps out of the shower the water is cold and he is tired, the late night from before catching up to him. Somehow, he falls asleep.

/ / / / / / / / / 

When Hermione disappears from the chocolate shop, she fully intends to find herself at home, run a bath and drink some wine and resolutely not think about Harry snogging her against a wall. 

However, she ends up right outside the Burrow.

Apparation is more art than science, and intention is more than half of the necessary skillset.

It isn’t the first time it’s happened to her. She is very precise when apparating, but sometimes if her mind is too full or she is too angry or happy or upset, she’ll end up in a very precise spot of a very different location than what she had in mind. 

Harry says she apparates with her gut. 

She should probably stop thinking about what Harry says.

She is blinded by rage when she spots Teddy, but she takes a few deep breaths. As is often the case when Teddy is surrounded by Weasleys, his hair has turned a nice coppery shade and his skin has turned a bit freckled. It’s something that he learned to do early on, and it must be second nature to him. Like apparating straight into a fight is for Hermione. 

She sighs and stomps towards the group of Weasleys having hot chocolate and watching the stars in their backyard. The air is crisp and biting cold, but she soon enters the bubble of the warming charm that surrounds the house.

Teddy spots her soon after and she can see his face fall. Good. He understands, he sees the anger in her eyes. 

“Teddy Lupin, a word,” she says, and walks back towards the trees in the yard, shooing off a pair of garden gnomes in her way. She can hear his footfalls behind her quick steps. When she turns, his hair has drained of all hints of orange and is a drab brown. He knows.

“Hermione…” he starts, but Hermione holds up a hand.

“Do you know what you did today?” she asks, her voice sounding hurt and disappointed. Because she can’t be angry or irate at a child and he is, still, a child. “You can’t understand…” She’s flustered and she’s not making sense, but Teddy is drained of color. “You can’t.”

Teddy pushes his hands into his pockets. He wants to apologize but isn’t quite sure what he’s apologizing for. It was a joke, meant to push them together, yes, but a stupid prank above all. He opens his mouth to speak but he spots Hermione’s eyes, full of fire, and decides against it. 

“Do you know what he went through in the war? What his nightmares are?” Hermione asks, her voice lower now. “He couldn’t move and he… There’s a reason he didn’t become an auror, there’s a reason why he left all the fighting behind. And you… he couldn’t move and he was terrified.” Her voice was shaky and she started wringing her hands. “You don’t know what he lost,” she says, and regrets it immediately as she sees Teddy’s eyes getting hotter as well.

“How can I know if no one ever fucking tells me about the war?” he shoots back. “No one wants to tell me anything, no one talks about it, like it’s some big secret. Like I didn’t lose my parents to it.” He wipes his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “I’m sorry if I made him remember what happened, but how can you expect me to know that if no one ever tells me anything? It was a stupid joke. It was just… I was trying to help.” He doesn’t look into Hermione’s eyes.

“You need to stay out of it. Harry and me, it is what it is, and we don’t need anyone pushing anything.” Hermione shrugs. “We never talk about the war with children. And you are still a child, whether you like it or not.”

“I’m of age.”

“You’re seventeen.”

“You were seventeen during the war.”

Hermione sighs. “We were children.”

There is a long, loaded silence that hangs between them. 

Finally, Teddy whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Hermione nods, curtly. “I didn’t mean to say… I know what you lost in the war. We all lost people we loved.” She places a hand on his shoulder. “But whatever you’re trying to do, you need to let it go. You’re not helping.”

“I wish…” he starts… “I just want you and Harry to be happy. He’s lonely all the time.”

Hermione bites her lower lip. “Being an adult is lonely sometimes. You need to just let us figure our own life out. You can’t change things just by willing it.” She gives him a soft smile. “Except your hair.” 

She pulls Teddy into a sideways hug. “I know you mean well, but please let it go.”

Teddy nods softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” she sighs. She kisses the top of his head, and his hair starts turning bright orange again. “I should go. Are you alright to go home?”

Teddy nods. “I’ll floo in.”

Hermione gives him a half-smile, and he can see the heartache in her eyes. “He is lonely, but he’s less lonely when you’re around. Just keep an eye on him.”

And then she walks away and disapparates, leaving behind a cloud of powdered snow.

/ / / / / / / / 

Teddy steps through the floo silently, containing a sneeze as the floo powder and soot rise up from the fireplace. 

He bounds up the stairs but attempts to keep every step as quiet as he can make it. 

He walks past Harry’s door and peers inside. Harry’s sleeping fitfully. 

Teddy walks in and places a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Harry?” he asks.

Harry blinks at Teddy, glasses askew. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I’m sorry,” Teddy says. He kneels down on the floor beside the bed. “Hermione told me…”

Harry sits up and casts a quick Lumos charm, the room lighting up softly. “It’s okay,” Harry says, still half-asleep.

“No, it’s not,” Teddy says, but looks away slightly. “I didn’t mean to… it was a joke.”

“I know.” Harry ruffles Teddy’s hair. “I sometimes over react,” Harry says, shrugging it off. 

Teddy nods. “I… Hermione says it’s because of the war.”

“I guess… sometimes, it just comes back, like a wave that hits me… I remember everything and I can’t tell if it’s just a memory or if I’m back there.” Harry looks into Teddy’s eyes, with the utmost sincerity. “I don’t talk about it much.”

Teddy looks down at his hands. “No one tells me about the war. I’ve read the books and everyone knows what happened, but… I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known.”

“Why did you, though?” Harry asks. He knows the answer, or at least he thinks he does.

“Don’t you want to be happy?” Teddy asks, looking back up at Harry. “I thought maybe if you just… you know… then maybe…” he trails off. 

“I’m happy,” Harry says softly. Teddy looks at him, unconvinced. “I am, Teddy. I have a good life, I have friends and… I have you. I’m alive and I love the work I do… when I was your age, I never thought I’d live to be my age. I thought the world would end. I’m grateful for all I have and I don’t want to lose any of it.”

“What about Hermione?” Teddy asks. 

“What about her?” Harry returns.

“You love her,” Teddy says, softly. 

Harry leans his head back on the wall. “Love looks different for different people. Hermione… she’s always been there. I can’t imagine a world where she isn’t a floo call away. I can’t… I can’t ruin that.”

“So you just do nothing.” Teddy can feel anger pooling in his stomach, and takes a deep breath to keep it at bay.

“I take care of what I have. Of what we have.” Harry looks down to Teddy again, then back up at the ceiling. “I can’t lose her. I decided that, a long time ago.”

Teddy leans back against the dresser. “I wish…” he starts, but trails off. 

“I know.” Harry reaches out and ruffles Teddy’s hair. “You should get some sleep.” Harry whispers a Nox and the lights go back out.

Teddy gets up off the floor and heads to the door. On the doorway he stops for a moment. “Will you tell me more? About the war? About Mum and Dad?”

Harry looks at Teddy silhouetted in the doorway. “Whenever you want, whatever you want to know.”

Teddy nods and disappears down the corridor. 

Harry watches him go, and knows that he will hardly get any sleep tonight.


End file.
